“I think this hat makes me look creepy,” I ventured, probably fishing for a compliment. I would only be disappointed.
“It’s not the hat,” came her quick reply, “you’re just creepy.”
“Fine, let’s just go,” I said, admitting defeat.
“Sure you don’t want to add a scarf or something, just to up the creep factor?” she teased, ever merciless.
Keeping the hat on to spite her spite I called over my shoulder, already half way out the door of our single-wide trailer, “Can we just go. Terrence is waiting.”
Exiting behind me, slamming the door so the whole trailer shook she retorted, “Terrence can, the stupid queen. My man needs to be full-on-creepy.” I looked back. Her pink vinyl knee-high boots glistened in the sun, covering all but a glimpse of her fishnets before they disappeared under a red denim mini. She hitched her white tube top up and gave me the look, tossing her permed dark hair out of her eyes.
How did I get here, I thought. Here am I, the gentleman of the heap wed to the queen of the trailer park.