Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

dogshit.”
He hooted.
She smiled and leaned against him, slipping her arm around his waist. “Oh, Mouse,” she murmured.
He knew that she was thinking about Jon again. “I’ll send you that ring,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“And thanks for being so nice to Wilfred.”
“Are you kidding? We’re made for each other. He says you met that Fabia woman in London.”
“Fabia Dane?”
“That’s the one.”
“How bizarre. She came by the place I’m staying and was rude as shit. She’s the one that’s buying (he house?”
“Was,” said Mona.
“Jesus … that must mean that their new country place …” He laughed, getting the picture. “I invited Simon to a party here this summer.”
“Simon?”
“The guy I swapped places with.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, tell him he’s still invited. He’s a nice guy?”
“Very. And handsome.”
“How nice for you.”
“No, he’s straight.”
“How nice for someone, then.”
“Are you off men completely?”
She gave him a languid nod. “And vice versa. I am a simple English country dyke and don’t you forget it.”
“It suits you.” He smiled.
“Does it?”
“It does. It really does.”
“You can be funky here. People really are very funky here, Mouse. It’s not widely known, but it’s true.”
He nodded.
“I will never be a lipstick lesbian. I hate that shit on my face!”
“This shit.”
“What?”
“You’ve got on makeup now, Mona.”
“Well, true … but it’s my fucking wedding. Gimme a break.”
Michael laughed. “Your non-fucking wedding.”
“My non-fucking wedding. Right.” She looked behind her anxiously. “I should go help Teddy say goodbye to the non-fucking guests.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Stay here. Take your time. Smoke this.” She removed a fat joint from the peach lace of her bodice. “It’s one of Teddy’s. It has hash in it.”
He took it from her. “Thanks, Babycakes.” She reminded him so much of Mrs. Madrigal it was almost eerie.
“When you’re really loaded,” she advised him, “go down and look at the moon through the window in the great hall. And check out the graffiti in the glass. It’s three hundred years old. Teenagers put it there.”
“All right,” he nodded.
“And come for coffee later in the kitchen. Teddy wants to show you his slides of San Francisco.”
He chuckled.
“And watch these goddamn steps on your way down, O.K.? I love you, Michael Mouse.”
“Same to you, fella.”
She disappeared into the roof.
He lit the joint and fixed his gaze on the procession of lights winding toward Easley-on-Hill. The night was peppered with laughter and the scuffing of feet against gravel paths. He heard a cuckoo, a real cuckoo. He couldn’t recall the last time he had heard one, if at all.
Wilfred joined him on the parapet. “Lady Mo said you were up here.”
“Lady Mo, huh?” He laughed.
“It’s me own name.”
“It’s great! Lady Mo!”
Wilfred grinned at him. “Are you fucked up, mate?”
“A little, I guess. Here.” He handed the joint to Wilfred, who took a short hit and handed it back. “I picked out me room,” said the kid. “Wanna see it?”
“Sure, kiddo. In a little bit.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m great.”
“Yeah … me too.”
“Look at where we are, Wilfred. It’s real! There really are places that look like this!” He pried a chunk of moss off the stone and tossed it over the edge.
“What about it, then, mate?”
“What about what?”
“Well,” said Wilfred, “you’re staying, aren’t you?”
    The Longest Easter
S IMON WAS LEAVING, FRAMED IN HER DOORWAY, SUITCASE in hand.
“I managed an earlier flight,” he said, “but I can certainly hold off until you get some word.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “He’ll be back. It’s only been seven hours or so.” It was easily the longest Easter in memory.
“Look,” he said, setting his suitcase down, “what if I call Theresa? She doesn’t know me, and we could at least find out if he’s there.”
“No. It’s O.K. He’s run off before.”
“Oh … I see.”
“Not over anything like this, of course.”
He grinned at her ruefully. “Of course.”
She looked at him for a moment, then flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Simon, I’ll miss you!”
He pecked her on the cheek somewhat formally. “Take care of yourself,” he said.
“I will.”
“I left Michael’s keys with Mrs. Madrigal.”
“Fine,” she said.
“His toaster wants repairing,