week; it’s the least I can do.” He stuffs the ten dollar bill in my hand.
“Okay,” I relent, “but on one condition…”
“What’s that?” he asks with a tilt of his chin.
“If you ever thank me for tutoring you again, I’ll make you eat a tenner.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says with a wave of his hand, indicating gracious dismissal of the matter.
Heading for the register, I’m suddenly halted by Mika’s voice and throw a backward glance over my shoulder.
“Keep the change,” he says, not trying to hide a smile.
The door bells chime as we duck out of the pizzeria. Waddling along at a brisk pace, I nudge Mika playfully. “Hey, can you speak Gaelic?”
He just looks at me with a slightly crooked smile and shakes his head.
I hug my coat tightly around me. That’s too bad. If Mika could speak Gaelic, I’d get down on bended knee right now and say, “I want to marry you and bear your children.”
“So...” he interrupts my moony fantasies, “are we still on for my tutoring session tomorrow?”
I tuck my frosty fingertips in my pockets. “I am if you are.”
“I sure am. Same place?”
“Well, instead of the library, why don’t you come over to my place?” I ask on a whim.
“Your place it is,” he says with an easy smile.
Fourteen
What the hell was I thinking? My place is a mess.
Despite our best efforts, Kars and I are hopeless at cleaning. Sporadically, we leave our crap lying all around the apartment, and things just end up staying wherever they land. Sometimes I tidy up and other times Kars will, and the only time our messy apartment becomes an issue is when we have guests over.
Like today.
Newspapers, books and bras are strewn everywhere. Yes—bras. Our living space is littered with bras. Demi cups, full coverage, wireless, T-shirt bras, strapless, convertibles, racer-backs, multi-ways, shelf bras, built in bras, peepholes, push-ups, front closures, water bras, sports bras (even though neither of us play any sports).
But I can explain. When Karsynn watches TV, she insists on going bra-less. It’s her firm belief that the brassiere underwires restrict her blood circulation.
Karsynn’s bijongas are rather small—34AA, or poached eggs as she calls them—and she is certain that if she goes braless, her Berthas will start sprouting again. And that’s not all. She claims that going braless lowers her breast cancer risk.
When I scoffed at that idea, Kars whipped out some medical study and paraded it in my face in mock reproof. So now I am a born again braless believer, and will admit to going braless on occasion, usually in the privacy of my own apartment.
Karsynn shimmies by and performs her magical bra maneuver trick. She reaches under the back of her shirt, unhooks her bra, wriggles down the straps, yanks it out of one sleeve and yells, “Presto!” all with one hand.
After performing her Harry Houdini trick, she carefully sets her bra on the arm of the sofa, and that is where it shall stay for months on end, or until it’s laundry time.
Hastily, I grab all her bras, including the black Wonder Bra she’d just plunked down and chuck everything into her bedroom.
“Wonder Bra,” Karsynn frets, “I love it and I hate it. When I take it off, I wonder where my boobs went.”
I bubble with laughter. “Let’s be thankful that men don’t wear Wonder Briefs.”
In preparation for Mika’s arrival, I morph into the Tasmanian Devil and whirl around, full steam ahead, tearing through the living room, flinging books and several more bras into our bedrooms.
Then I lug out my dependable Dyson and begin industriously vacuuming away. Wheezing, panting and slightly spinning, I’m still in my SpongeBob T-shirt and yoga pants when I hear a rap on the door. Meanwhile, Kars is sulking in front of the TV because I forced her to put on a bra. “If I get breast cancer, it’ll be all your fault,” she grumbles.
Swinging open the door, I find Mika hovering in the hallway, his long and lean figure filling the space.
“Come on in,” I say pleasantly.
He steps in and promptly removes his shoes. He is fully aware of our house rule: shoes off as soon as you enter.
“Yo, Mika!” Kars hollers from the sofa. “Thanks for the pesto pizza! Best pizza I’ve had in a long, long time.”
“Anytime,” he says. “As long as Maddy keeps on tutoring me, I’ll buy you pizza.”
Karsynn gives him two thumbs up and returns her gaze to the telly.
Mika perches on the arm of the sofa. “What are you watching?”
“The