Tuesday 200 — one hundred twelve
What in the jimmy cricket is a Tuesday 200?
I’m normally not a fan of neck tattoos, but I wanted to know how his tasted. Peeking out of the collar of his corporate-issued black polo shirt, which he filled out remarkably well, like a guy who plays Australian Rules football, or World Cup rugby.
The kind of guy you’d want to have your back in a dark alley, and whose back you’d die to have in a dark backroom.
“Nice polish, sir,” he said, refilling my coffee.
I held up my thumb. “Cherry red.”
“Why just one?”
I brought the coffee mug up to my mouth. It smelled like jet fuel and unexpected possibilities. “All ten would be way too slutty.”
I took a sip and smiled.
“My slutty season doesn’t start till next month.”
Laughing, he leaned, in, pointed to my wedding band and said, “Pity. Got a brother?”
“Actually, I do. A twin, and he’s in town for a few weeks.”
‘Well,” he said, his tan cheeks growing rosy, “send him around tomorrow. I get off at 11.”
Watching him head to the kitchen, I thought rugby, definitely rugby.
I picked up my phone and quietly said, “Hey Siri, remind me to take off my nail polish.”