Those are some of the most stomach churning words to make into a sentence, but that is what I heard over the phone earlier that day. “Who is it, Marie?” “This guy I work with in accounting, he is really a sweetheart of a guy, and girlfriend, and he is really hot.” That meant he was dull and boring and probably had a 5 o’clock shadow. “He wants to meet you because I’ve told him a lot about you and you being a writer. So, I set you up for a dinner date at eight, and you’re to meet him at The Japanese Steakhouse on Calhoun Avenue,” Marie instructed. “I can't believe you made a date with a guy that I don’t even know. How dare you, woman!” I shouted as I put lotion on my legs. “Whoa, woman, what got up your butt this afternoon?” “A skinny little Southern twig name Laura, she thought I was sleeping with Richard.” “Say what? Oh hell no! She thought you and Richard were sleeping together?” All I could do was shake my head in disgust as Marie continued to tell me about my “mystery date”
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