The Boy Next Door - Weebly

him, that he'd pay for a cab home for me, and that he hoped I'd take a raincheck on dinner.
So I asked him if he was crazy, and he said he did not conscientiously believe so, and I
said anyone with as many nicknames as he apparently has definitely has some major
problems, and he agreed with me, and then we argued pleasantly for about two hours over
which serial killers throughout history were the most deranged, and finally the vet came
out and said Tweedle-dum was recovering and we could go home, and so we left.
It wasn't too late to get dinner by Manhattan standards--only ten o'clock--and John was
all for it, even though we'd missed our reservation at wherever he'd planned on taking me.
But I wasn't up for battling the late-night supper crowd, and he agreed and said, Want to
order Chinese again or something? And I said it would probably be a good idea to
comfort Paco and Mr. Peepers, who were surely unsettled by their missing feline brother.
Plus I had read in the TV Guide that The Thin Man was showing on PBS.
So we went back to his place--or his aunt's place, I should say--and ordered moo shu
pork again, and the food arrived just as the movie was starting, and so we ate it off Mrs.
Friedlander's coffee table, sitting on her comfy black leather couch, on which I dropped
not one but two spring rolls smothered with that orange stuff. Which was, incidentally, when
he started kissing me. Seriously. I was totally apologizing for getting that sticky orange stuff
all over his aunt's couch when he leaned over, stuck his knee in it , and started kissing me.
I haven't been that shocked since my Algebra tutor did almost the same thing my
freshman year in high school. Only there wasn't any orange duck sauce and we'd been
talking about integers, not paper towels. And let me tell you, Max Friedlander is a way better
kisser than any Algebra tutor ever was. I mean, he has got the kissing thing down pat. I was
afraid the top of my head was going to blow off. Seriously. He's that good of a kisser.
Or maybe he isn't that good of a kisser. Maybe it's just been so long since anybody has
kissed me like he meant it--you know, really meant it--that I forgot what kissing is like.
John kisses like he means it. Really means it. Still, when he stopped kissing me, I was in such
a state of head-spinning shock that all I could do was blurt out, What did you do that for?
which probably sounded rude, but he didn't take it that way. He went, Because I wanted to.
So I thought about that for like a split second, and then I reached up and put my arms
around his neck and said, Good. Then I did some kissing of my own. And it was really nice
because Mrs. Friedlander's couch is very cushy and soft, and John kind of sank down onto me
and I kind of sank down into the couch, and we kissed for a very long time, in fact we kissed until
Paco decided he needed to go out, and stuck his big wet nose between our foreheads.
That's when I realized I better get out of there. First of all, you know what our mothers
always said about kissing on the first date. And second of all, not to gross you out, but
there was some very interesting stuff happening downstairs, if you know what I mean.
And Max Friedlander is definitely NOT gay. Gay guys do not get full-on stiffies from
kissing girls. This much even a small-town girl from the Midwest knows.
So while John was cursing Paco out, I was all straightening myself out and saying primly,
Well, thank you for lovely evening, but I think I have to go now, and then I tore out of
there, while he was still going, "Mel, wait, we have to talk."
I didn't wait. I couldn't. I had to get out while I still had control over my motor-functions. I am
telling you, Nadine, this guy's kisses are enough to numb your brain stem, they're that good. So
what's to talk about? Well, there's one thing: Nadine, I'm letting you know right now. I am
bringing a date to your wedding. Gotta go. Fingers are cramping up from writing too much, and I