The F-Word

“It’s white tea.”

“White tea?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Malley. It’s picked before the leaves are—”

“That Mr. O’Malley thing has to go.”

“Really, sir—”

“Same with the sir routine.” I check the mirror, pick up some speed and pass a line of cars. “Loose.” She looks at me. “The tea. Am I right?”

She gives a quick nod.

“Okay. White tea. What else should I know? Sports. Are you into sports?”

Silence. Then she sighs again. “No.”

“Not even to watch? Baseball?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Football?”

Another roll of the eyes. “Grown men,” she says, “pummeling each other into the dirt.”

“Sometimes it’s into the mud,” I say helpfully. She makes a face. “Okay,” I say. “How about hobbies?”

“Not really.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, I like to go to gallery showings. Museums. I like to walk along the beach. Jones Beach, when I can. That’s out on—”

“On Long Island. Great beach. Anything else?”

“I like classical music.”

“I knew that,” I say triumphantly.

“You did?”

“Of course. Your cell phone. Beethoven’s Fifth.”

“Holsts’ The Planets.”

“Yeah. That’s what I meant. Come on. What other things do you like to do?”

“I like to read.”

“Ah. Those books with sexy guys on the covers? What are you reading right now?”

“War and Peace,” she says coolly. “If there’s a sexy guy on the cover, I haven’t noticed.”

War and Peace. It figures.

“What’s your idea of a perfect late night snack?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Cereal.”