“What do you suppose Cinderella and the prince talked about after he found her again the next day?” I ask, wondering for the first time ever how that part of the story played out.
“My guess is, he asked her how the hell she ran out of there so fast in one tiny glass slipper.”
I laugh. “Fair point. I think we all want to know the answer to that one.” Speaking of shoes not meant for running, I ditched my heels as soon as we left Denny’s. My feet demanded it. Angrily. Now that my toes are free, and in the sand, they’re loving me again.
“Then I think they probably got right to the important stuff.”
I’m intrigued. “Which is?”
“What side of the bed. Thoughts on whipped cream on pie. Pie, in general. And, of course, whether or not they believe the Bermuda Triangle is real,” he rattles off like he’s been thinking about this list for a while.
“I can see the value in discussing the bed thing. I need to be on the left, by the way.”
“Why do you need the left?” he cuts in before I can go on with my assessment of his idea of important stuff.
“Because that’s my side of the bed.” I thought I just covered that.
“Technically, aren’t both sides of the bed yours?”
“Yes. All sides of my bed are mine.” Despite what Sloan may think on nights when she falls asleep while watching movieswith me. That girl doesn’t just hog a blanket, she hogs the whole damn setup. And it’s a tight squeeze to begin with.
“So, why the left?” he keeps at it, smirking like he finds this whole thing entirely entertaining.
“If you must know,” and clearly, he must, “when I was twenty and had my first apartment, my closet was haunted. And it was on the right. So, I slept on the left, with my back to it.”
“Only your closet was haunted?” He laughs.
“Yes!’ I realize this sounds ridiculous. “I think whoever it was left something behind in there because they constantly seemed to be looking for something. My clothes were always falling off the hangers and one time, my entire shoe rack was knocked over. I mean, I felt bad for whoever they were, locked in their eternal search with no chance of ever finding what they were looking for, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t freaked out at night, lying in my bed, watching my linens move on the top shelf.”
He’s still laughing. “Why didn’t you just close your closet?”
“No, shit.” I shake my head. “Obviously, I tried that. Never stayed closed. And watching that shit slide open isn’t any less freaky than watching the contents be rearranged.”
“Fine,” he concedes at last, “you can have the left side of the bed on one condition.”
He says this like we’re sharing a bed already. Last I checked, we don’t even sleep in the same state. But I’ll play along. “What’s the condition?”
“You can’t sleep with your back to me.”
I smile. “Deal.” Then I realize, “Wait, do you sleep on the left too?”
“I used to.” He grins. “Now I’m sleeping in the middle.”
“Because you have the whole bed to yourself?” I conclude. I guess that’s what most single people do. My current bed doesn’t really give me that option. If I’m in it, I’m taking up left, right and center, and one of my feet is probably still dangling off.
“Because you’re sleeping on the left and I’m not leaving room for another whole damn person between us,” he informs me, somewhat indignantly, like I should be following along with this conversation better.
“Right. Sorry.” Now I’m the one laughing at him. “Let’s move on. What’s your deal with pie?”
“I have no deal with pie,” he says frowning. “Other than it’s the reason God created dessert!”
I scowl. “Oh, dude. You couldn’t be more wrong. Chocolate cake is the reason God created dessert. Pie? Pie is barely even dessert-like. You can make pie out of squash and root vegetables. I don’t recall ever having to worry about my chocolate cake supplying my daily serving of vegetables.”
“Worry? What are you talking about? That’s the best part! You can eat dessert and your veggies at the same time, so you’re eating healthy without knowing it,” he reasons.
“Are you putting whipped cream on your veggie pie?”
“Obviously. Are you against that too?”
