“Are you going to listen or rudely look at your phone?” she spat.
“Neither” I replied. “Just putting on some background music with the volume low.”
“You won’t get much of a wifi signal back here and you don’t have my password . . . or do you?”
“No I don’t and I don’t need it.”
“Oh, some more of your black ops tech?” she asked sarcastically.
“Nope. I just stuck a big enough card in here to hold all of the music I like.” A few more taps and a slide to lower the volume brought up Stevie Nicks singing “Gypsy.”
“Why do all guys worship Stevie Nicks!” she exclaimed more than asked while sitting up to look me in the eye. “Every guy I know, even the country and western ogres, as you call them, worship Stevie Nicks. Has she got that much cleavage?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you anything about her chest size” I responded.
“Seriously! All you guys are hooked on hooters and that myth about having kids to make them bigger certainly didn’t work on me.”
“Honestly, I’m into legs and eyes. Now that I’m older I’m really glad that’s my thing. Gravity is not kind to the hooters but a woman can keep her legs phenomenal throughout her life. When I was young and dumb there was much chatter about Lucille Ball getting some award when she was seventy-something. She walked up on stage with a skirt slit to the hip and still had phenomenal legs. I know you women like to slap us down with that hooter slam, but, you’d all do better to focus on being Mrs. Robinson instead of Dolly Parton.”
“Mrs. Robinson . . . ?” she queried cautiously.
“Kids these days.”
Slap! Open palm to the chest. Had just the proper air gap at the palm to really sting.
“Rent a movie titled ‘The Graduate’ staring Dustin Hoffman” I continued. “There is no point in my trying to put it into words. You have to get that information straight from the source.” I was rather shocked when she got up for the pen and pad on the other side of the bed to write it down.
“Okay” she spoke putting the pen and pad down closer, “I’ll let you dodge that bullet, but not Stevie Nicks.”