“No,” she replied, “I’m just not used to someone so competitive.”
“Please,” I said as we began walking down the hall, “You are married to a professional athlete. I am fairly certain he’s competitive.”
“That’s different,” she said.
“So, you need to read James Joyce,” she added, clearly wanting nothing to do with the fact that I brought her husband into the conversation.
“Okay. I will.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, tell me what to read and I will.”
“Okay. Well, you have to read Dubliners then. Short stories, mostly depressing.”
“Sounds like my kind of pleasure reading.”
“Oh shut up. You’ll love them. He’s my favorite author.”
“That’s a pretty bold statement coming from someone who has read so many different books.”
“I can be a fairly bold person.”
“I can see that,” I said, wondering why certain things she said gave me goose bumps — the good kind.
“So you promise you’ll read it?” she asked as we neared the lunchroom. The sound of the students waiting in line was almost as offensive as the smell of fried food wafting through the halls.
“I do. I’ll just have to hit up my local public library and find it. It’s probably covered in dust.”
She jabbed me with her elbow.
“I have two copies at the house. Come by after work sometime tonight and I’ll let you borrow one.”
“Are you sure your husband won’t mind if I stopped by?”
“He won’t be home.”
And with that, she smiled and walked into the lunchroom.
“Please,” I said as we began walking down the hall, “You are married to a professional athlete. I am fairly certain he’s competitive.”
“That’s different,” she said.
“So, you need to read James Joyce,” she added, clearly wanting nothing to do with the fact that I brought her husband into the conversation.
“Okay. I will.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, tell me what to read and I will.”
“Okay. Well, you have to read Dubliners then. Short stories, mostly depressing.”
“Sounds like my kind of pleasure reading.”
“Oh shut up. You’ll love them. He’s my favorite author.”
“That’s a pretty bold statement coming from someone who has read so many different books.”
“I can be a fairly bold person.”
“I can see that,” I said, wondering why certain things she said gave me goose bumps — the good kind.
“So you promise you’ll read it?” she asked as we neared the lunchroom. The sound of the students waiting in line was almost as offensive as the smell of fried food wafting through the halls.
“I do. I’ll just have to hit up my local public library and find it. It’s probably covered in dust.”
She jabbed me with her elbow.
“I have two copies at the house. Come by after work sometime tonight and I’ll let you borrow one.”
“Are you sure your husband won’t mind if I stopped by?”
“He won’t be home.”
And with that, she smiled and walked into the lunchroom.
