Author : Angela McQuay
“Flickenborge?” Jason asks.
I hand him the remote. Like most couples who really get each other, Jason and I have developed a language of our own.
You have to hand it to Jason, the man is damn attractive. Ever since the day I’d found him banging his forehead on my front door, I knew he had to be the one. Dark hair, blue eyes, white teeth…as long as you don’t look too close and see the gills, he’s right up there with George Clooney. Most of my girlfriends end up dating guys who look more like George Burns.
There was an initial problem with his name, of course. No one would be able to pronounce Jinga(fart sound)(squelchy sound)nofta(honking sound). Though I’ve gotten good at it, especially late at night. After showing Jason that we don’t give pleasure here by headbutting, he really proved to be an apt student.
“Yep, it’s almost time to go.” We’re hanging with my friend Jessica tonight, who has a hard time with men. It seems they are either unavailable, TOO available, narcissistic or dumbasses, usually some combination. Not my Jason. I tell him what I need and he gives it to me, most of the time while acting nearly completely human. I’ve got it made.
Oh yeah, there’s that. When he gets really excited, this green slime shoots out of his ears, but we’re working on that, we really are. I bought him some cool earmuffs and it’s almost getting cold enough that he can wear them in public.
My friend Gloria’s husband cheated on her with the teenage boy who mowed their lawn. I can deal with a little slime.
“I love you too, Jason.” Yep, I’ve got it made.
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