She put her hand up under my arm, squeezed, leaned into me a little and whispered conspiratorially as we walked out of Lowe’s, “God, that man’s giant weinie smells scrumptious, doesn’t it?”
“That man’s weinie.” She squeezes a little more. “It looks so-o good and smells out of this world.” The grip starts to relax.
“What man?” The squeeze is back, full on, with a tug.
“That man in the red shirt putting stuff on his weinie. Right there.” She glanced to her right, I started to turn. “Don’t look.”
“What, some guy has his weinie out and I–”
“Not that kind of weinie. The ones with grilled onions. And, ” she glanced again, “oh my God, some are even wrapped in bacon!”
“Ohhh….” I slow down, trying to be nice. “I think the guy selling them has Turkey dogs. You want one?”
“No, no. Keep going. I’m not really hungry, and I don’t like gross old weiners.”
I choke the laugh on that one. “Now you tell me.”
“Shut UP!” I can feel her nails in my inner elbow as I’m pulled through the parking lot. “I can’t go anywhere with you, can I?”
I know there’s a squeeze bruise on the inside of my arm, but man…It was worth it.