"Hey so," Matt said, a month or so later, looking happy and well-fed and pleasantly buzzed. Marci was starting to get how Foggy - normally so intelligent and even-keeled - had fallen for Matt. He was like those - what-was-it-called, the game theory: there was almost no chance of seeing him happy and relaxed on a reliable schedule, but sometimes you got lucky, and the infrequent, unpredictable days when he went loose and pleased were just enough positive reinforcement to get you hooked.
Also the ass. The ass was fucking perfect.
"I can't make it next Friday," Matt said. "So next Friday would be the perfect day for you two to check out that pho place."
"Junk food date!" Foggy cheered, and winked at Marci, and damnit, she couldn't go around grinning all the time just because her boyfriend was a cutie. That was for teenagers. "Wait, why? Are -" obligatory drop in volume - "criminals penciling you in, now?"
Matt threw back his head, giggling. Marci bit her lip and made a mental note to grab a cab: it had only taken one time when Matt had declared himself totally fine to walk home. The video had gone viral on youtube: thank god the aspiring film student hadn't gotten a shot of Matt's face, but there'd been a solid thirty seconds of a man in a shirt walking on his hands, tie dangling. Matt tipsy and in a good mood meant ridiculous shenanigans. "I wish they would," he said. "No, I have a date next Friday."
Marci blinked.
She was less than impressed by the idea that Matt could tell if someone was being honest or not: she'd met people who could pass polygraphs without flinching, people who knew all the tricks and shortcuts to use to get the jury on your side. She'd learned some of them, and she was still practicing some of them.
"Good for you," she said, and made sure that she meant it.
"Aw, yeah, bud," Foggy said, shaking his head, wry and pleased. "How do you do it? When do you find time to meet these women? Do you sleep? Wait, do I know her?"
Matt blushed, looking quietly pleased with himself; Marci buried herself in her white wine, thinking shit.
**
That night, at her place, Foggy flopped across her clean grey quilt and sighed in real despair. "I'm a fucking idiot," he told - her? the ceiling? - she wasn't sure.
Re: Marcy/Foggy/Matt
Also the ass. The ass was fucking perfect.
"I can't make it next Friday," Matt said. "So next Friday would be the perfect day for you two to check out that pho place."
"Junk food date!" Foggy cheered, and winked at Marci, and damnit, she couldn't go around grinning all the time just because her boyfriend was a cutie. That was for teenagers. "Wait, why? Are -" obligatory drop in volume - "criminals penciling you in, now?"
Matt threw back his head, giggling. Marci bit her lip and made a mental note to grab a cab: it had only taken one time when Matt had declared himself totally fine to walk home. The video had gone viral on youtube: thank god the aspiring film student hadn't gotten a shot of Matt's face, but there'd been a solid thirty seconds of a man in a shirt walking on his hands, tie dangling. Matt tipsy and in a good mood meant ridiculous shenanigans. "I wish they would," he said. "No, I have a date next Friday."
Marci blinked.
She was less than impressed by the idea that Matt could tell if someone was being honest or not: she'd met people who could pass polygraphs without flinching, people who knew all the tricks and shortcuts to use to get the jury on your side. She'd learned some of them, and she was still practicing some of them.
"Good for you," she said, and made sure that she meant it.
"Aw, yeah, bud," Foggy said, shaking his head, wry and pleased. "How do you do it? When do you find time to meet these women? Do you sleep? Wait, do I know her?"
Matt blushed, looking quietly pleased with himself; Marci buried herself in her white wine, thinking shit.
**
That night, at her place, Foggy flopped across her clean grey quilt and sighed in real despair. "I'm a fucking idiot," he told - her? the ceiling? - she wasn't sure.