Lark McCapSnatcher: I’m busy.
Me: What are you doing?
Lark McCapSnatcher: Washing my hair.
Me: A likely story.
Lark McCapSnatcher: Then I’m going to shave my legs. I’ll be busy all night. I might even put on an avocado mask, and you definitely don’t want to see that.
Me: I want to see whatever you’ve got.
Lark McCapSnatcher: But not when you’re around your friends and family.
I jam my phone back in my pocket, clean up my station really quickly, and leave the tattoo shop. I walk on foot to her apartment building where I get stopped by building security.
He says something to me, but I’m not sure what it is. No matter what some people lead you to believe, reading lips is difficult. I can’t catch but about forty percent of what I see on someone’s lips, and that leaves a lot of holes.
“What?” I ask.
He picks up a pen and a pad of paper. Do you have an appointment? he writes. You’re not on the list.
I texted her and she told me to come over, I write for him.
He narrows his eyes and motions for me to show him my phone. He takes it and reads what I wrote.
“You poor bastard,” I think he says, but he says it out loud, so I can read his lips. I could be wrong. He motions for me to go ahead.
The text didn’t really say she wanted me to come over, but it does imply her knowledge that I would be arriving.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Good luck,” I think he replies.
I take the elevator up and stop in front of her door. I take off my cap and run my hand through my hair, trying to improve my appearance.
I knock and the door opens.
And that is where my heart fucking stops.
Lark is standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped turban-style around her wet hair. Damp tendrils of it are hanging around her neck, and the collar of her Tweety Bird pajamas is damp. Her face is coated with a sticky green substance, so that only her brown eyes and lips are exposed. On her feet she’s wearing fluffy house shoes with cartoon characters on the toes. Tweety and Sylvester, I think.
She takes a bite of a piece of pizza that was in her hand and talks around it.
I have no idea what she said, since her hands and her mouth are both full. “You are so damn pretty,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and walks into the living room, leaving the door open behind her. I close it and follow her into the room. Her pajama bottoms are tiny and they hug her ass. She pulls her shirt down to cover them, which is probably good because I think I can see the line where her butt meets her thigh. And it’s as pretty and curvy as the rest of her.
I close the door behind me and follow her to the kitchen.
She heaves out a heavy sigh. “What do you want?”
“I want to apologize.”
She shrugs. “So do it, so I can finish shaving my legs.”
I look down, just because I’m nosy. She did tell me that’s what she would be doing, but I didn’t believe her.
Then I realize she’s not wearing her gloves, either. She just let me in the door and she doesn’t have her arms covered. “Where are your gloves?” I ask.