Conversations with Men

"Oh my God!"

I have the breath crushed out of me by an intense hug. Right when I think I may pass out from oxygen deprivation I get pushed back to arm's length and examined. He's giving me the kind of once over that automatically makes me straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and lift my chin.

"You. Look. Amazing." 

I smile and blush a little.  

"You're awfully sweet." 

"I'm serious, Kels. That dress, your breasts, that cute little blush you've got going on?  Delicious. And how much are you running? Your legs have gotten so skinny! And just between us, with however many miles you're logging, that short skirt, and those high heels, You. Are. Killing. It."

At this point I can't stop laughing. Despite the high heels, I still have to stand up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. 

"It's starting to worry me that the only men who ever tell me how nice I look are gay." 

"The straight ones are all so thunderstruck by your beauty, wit, and charm, that's why." 

"Oh, hush."

***

"The version of me you write about in your blog is a complete fiction."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a complete fiction! You make me act like I'm really nice and that I care about you and that I'm looking out for you." 

I start laughing so hard I choke on my lemonade.

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that that's how I see you?"

"No! Because in real life, I'm just an asshole who likes to be the center of attention."

"Oh, honey." 

"I am!"

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Can you play darts?" 

I slid into the passenger seat approximately a second earlier. "Nope."

"Excellent. We're going to drink cheap beer and throw darts." 

"Is it even any fun winning against me?"

"Yes, because you get so competitive despite being so bad." 

When I realize the bar we're going to I reach across the car and punch him in the arm. "Is this a bros night?"

"Well." He's equivocating. "It's just you and me."

I groan.

"Kels, you're the closest thing I have to a bro!" 

"I'm wearing a pink sundress." 

"Bro." 

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Let me be very clear about this."

I have my finger in his face and I'm pissed. 

"I'm not saying that Marvel's doing shitty work. I'm not saying that DC is better. What I am saying is that Image, Dark Horse, and Titan have all announced/are currently printing titles that sound or are an excellent departure from capes and spandex. And I think it's stupid to get wrapped up in things like Lady Thor and ignore all the spectacular work that's being done by smaller presses." I pause and take a drink of my beer. "I also think that's why conversations about Who has the better superheroes between DC and Marvel  are kind of idiotic." 

The fellow I'm with rolls his eyes so hard I suspect it may have changed my DNA. 

"The issue" he pontificates "is that superhero comics define the genre. They are comics. What you're talking about" here, he actually waves his hand dismissively at me, "are graphic novels." 

I concentrate on draining my beer. "A graphic novel is a one-off story told and illustrated in a single volume. Comics are serialized and need not include tights and a cape. And narrow-minded jerkoffs like you are what keep comics from going mainstream." 

"You're in quite the mood tonight."

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Kelly?"

If I were in my right mind, I'd notice the edge to his voice. 

I'm not entirely in my right mind. 

"Kelly." 

"Hmm?" 

"Just let it go. Now. For me."

I say something rather inappropriate, rather loudly, and then am quiet for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, I'm just flustered. "Did I? I mean . . .um. Did . . . Shit." 

It's the kind of smile you can hear in someone's voice. 

"Oh, hush."