Irene: “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of standing outside a wagon-wheeled bungalow while a dark-haired man tried to win my affections.”
Cary: “How fascinating. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of wearing questionable socks and glossy short-shorts.”
Irene: “That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure you didn’t dream of making me your wanton plaything?”
Cary: “Oh. Maybe I didn’t understand the question. Are you old enough to be taken wantonly?”
Irene: “I believe the door number makes it clear.”
Cary: “I see. Well, I suppose there could be wantonness, but I’m thrown off a bit by your couture.”
Irene: “Really? One would think that a referee-based outfit would appeal to your beastly love of sports. Pretend that I have just made a ruling in favor of the opposing team, which has inspired you to teach me a lesson. I must be punished. Repeatedly.”
Cary: “That does have a certain charm. But no referee I know would wear shoes like that. Nor anyone who actually intends to go swimming.”
Irene: “Oh, I plan to get wet alright.”
Cary: “Well, then. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your agenda. Should we head to your locker room?”
Irene: “With extreme haste. But first…”
Irene: “Could you reach behind me and open the door? I managed to get my hair caught when it closed and I’ve been waiting three hours for somebody to walk by.”
Previously published. Slight changes made for this post.
Personal note to the folks who expressed concern for my aunt in the previous post: The Covid test was negative. They still don’t know the source of the issue, but her condition has improved. Thank you for your kind thoughts.
Categories: Past Imperfect