One Sense Of Direction

Overheard At The Surrealist Peep-Hole

“That's plenty for me,” she said reassuringly, “if that's what you've been worrying about.”

“What makes you think I'd be thinking about that?” he asked.

“Oh...men always do, don't they?” she giggled.

“Do they?” As if he didn’t know. “Well, yeah—I guess that's right,” he grinned.

He liked her more for putting him at his ease like this than for her beauty or her intelligence or her passion or her dancing curly brown ringlets of hair. It didn't matter that what she'd said meant only that he was like other men—a hardon with only one sense of direction. Her kindness was still real.

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