Funny Feelings (27)

“What the hell? You ordered without me?”

He slides his palms down his parted, jean-clad thighs, and something hitches in my lower gut. It’s a constant with him lately, yet I’m caught off guard every time. I wish I could at least predict which things would make my stomach dip so I’d know what to avoid. But it’s always some tiny mannerism, some passing comment, or even some sound.

Last week, he pumped my gas for me and wiped off my windshield, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of toned torso, a dusting of hair trailing down from his bellybutton… I broke out in a cold sweat.

“I did. I didn’t know if this was a professional lunch or not, after all.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t know if I’m still going to be your manager.”

“Meyer—” I whine.

“Jones. Listen to me. Therapy is a condition of me working with you. I’ve got no interest in working with you closely and watching you fade. And you fucking will if you don’t learn how to balance your shit out. You can still use your humor, wield that like a whip, but keep your mental health a priority. Which means learning tools from an expert. I feel secure in saying this to you, and not at all lame, and I’m not even tempted to make a self-deprecating joke about it because—you guessed it—I go to therapy.” he folds his arms onto the table and cocks his head, looking me directly in the eyes.

“Well, you’re kind of unfunny for a comedian,” I retort primly.

His palms go to his heart in mock horror. “Just wait until I tell you about your meeting with a financial advisor and how I plan to make you set up a 401k.”

“Lovely. Do you jerk off to Dave Ramsey, too?”

“No, but I did find a podcast of women who talk about NFT’s and sometimes I’ll have a go at myself to that.”

I know he’s kidding (I mean, he has to be, right?) but the mental image of Meyer gripping himself in the shower sweeps over me and pulls me under. I can’t swallow air back fast enough, my stomach left somewhere above my skull in the atmosphere. Nononono….

“Jones? Come on. Jesus, I was kidding. You can’t dish it and expect me to not ever give it back.”

I grab his beer and take a gulp. “Ughh,” I shudder. “Fine. But can I please have a different therapist? I felt stupid today.”

“Nope. She came highly recommended by mine.”

I do an undignified stomp, letting my head fall back on a groan.

“Fine,” and I take the rest of his pita.





I call out to Marissa as soon as I get into the house.

She levers up from her horizontal position on the couch and I squeak. “Jesus, I didn’t see you there.”

“What’s up?”

“We have a problem, Miss.”

“Oooh. Go on,” she grabs the bag of Doritos from the floor by her side.

“No, for real. This isn’t a Dorito’s thing.”

“Day wine?”

“Yes, day wine.”

Moments later, day wine in hand, we sit side by side on the couch staring at the blank TV.

“I officially have a crush on Meyer,” I admit.

“Like, a harmless, ‘ha-ha’ silly little flirtatious crush, like you’ve always had?” she shrugs.

I turn to her. “Like a heated, vividly-pictured-him-naked, sharp longing from my vaginal soul, crush. Throat thickening desire and pining. Distracting, life-altering. I’ve kept it under control, but then he sends me to one therapy session and I’m suddenly a little too in touch with my feelings if you know what I mean.”

She crunches a stack of Doritos while she searches my eyes.

“Okay…” she swallows. “Well… I want you to know that this isn’t coming from a selfish place— though obviously, it would probably be uncomfortable and shitty for me if you started banging the man who is about to be my boss, who is giving me my dream job... But, I also genuinely think that this is not a good idea for you.”

“Marissa, I know this.”

“Well, I just mean that, working with Meyer is a great opportunity for your career. If you guys start hooking up, unfortunately, it could lead to you not being taken as seriously. Then there’s Hazel and how any potential fallout would affect her—”

“Miss, I know. And Meyer is good for me. He’s a good friend and I already know he’ll be a good manager. I don’t want to ruin that. I just need to figure out how to handle it.”

She reaches a finger into her mouth to pick the Dorito gunk from her teeth as she considers.

“Wanna go out?”

I sigh. “I think it’s the only thing we can do,” I say.





A couple Fridays a month, Lance’s club has a DJ instead of any comedians or open mic nights. It’s still rarely crowded, and it certainly doesn’t turn into a young, hip, dance club of any sorts, but that’s precisely why we love it.

The crowd is a blend of all ages, and the music is the same. DJ Jerald takes any and all requests, treating us all to a journey through time and sound every time that he works.

We strut through the doors to Don’t Stop Believing, and shimmy directly over to the bar. I’ve proudly managed to wrap myself in a shirt that looked like a scarf when I began the application process, and start perusing for a man that looks both worthy and capable of taking it off later. Prospects appear to be low, so far, but it’s early yet.