Inside Blimpie's I nudge Carl. "Her, the sandwich artiste. I'm getting her number."
"Her?" Carl laughs. "Dude, I think that's a guy."
"Nah, too pretty," I say. "Those smoldering eyes, those pouty lips." Carl stares, reconsiders, cuts in line. I protest with fake outrage: "I saw her first."
Carl, the "friend" who's stolen my last three crushes, flirts shamelessly, disregarding the square jaw, the flat chest, the muscled arms assembling his meatball sub. He pays, walking away with free chips and a phone number.
"Don't hate me," he begs outside. "You know I'm a sucker for a pretty girl." Sucker, indeed.
Article copyright Bar Bar Inc.
Photograph (Sandwich artist)
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