Peggy leaned forward and smiled alluringly at me. “Suppose the horse throws you off. Do you mount the other horse and ride?”
My eyes opened wide. “Maybe. But only if the horse knew I was just there for the ride.”
Peggy leaned back in her chair. The bluntness of my answer put her off, but only for a minute. She knew she had set the tone by picking up on my ‘Pass out in some woman’s arm’s’ line. I could pretty much guess what was going through her mind.
“Decide now,” she was probably saying to herself. She looked over at me. But can she fuck me tonight and work with me in the morning? She decided to back off the obvious flirtation for the time being and talk about something else. “That’s how they did you. They just rode you, knowing all the while Brent was their boy,” she said, managing to turn sexual innuendo into
something work related. I admired her for her ingenuity.
For the next few hours, I sat through Peggy venting, and four more doubles. After her fourth screw against the wall, Peggy was in a mood I wasn’t accustomed to seeing. She had taken off her jacket and had unbuttoned the top button a while ago. The second worked itself loose from her laughter. She didn’t seem to care. Gone was the smooth and highly-polished, edged Peggy, the accountant, portrayed in the office.
I had decided an hour ago that I was going to drink and have a good time with Peggy, and that was that. However, now, under the influence of alcohol, her naturally aggressive tendencies seemed more predatory, more sexual. I liked aggressive, powerful women; it was one of my weaknesses. I looked Peggy over. With her blouse unbuttoned, Peggy exposed her cleavage. More cleavage than I had given her credit for. Peggy was an attractive woman, black or white. “You know something, Peggy.” I pointed at her, glass in hand.
“What’s that, Tavarus?”
“You’re kinda fine. For a white girl.”
“Just what’s that supposed to mean?”
I scanned the room with my eyes. “Let’s just say you carry around a bit more tangible assets than your average white girl, Peg.”
“Are you trying to say that I have a big ass, Tavarus?”
“I mean, you don’t have a big, ‘jiggling baby’ sistah kind of ass, but compared to the rest of these slouches. I mean, look at them. They’re all suffering from white woman’s disease.”
“From what?”
“No ass at all.” I held up one finger. “Look, no-ass-at-all.” Pointing at women as they passed by our table. “No ass at all. No ass at all. No ass at all.” Peggy laughed. “This is usually the point where I’d ask what was up with that, but I can’t ask you. ’Cause you’re carrying a little something.”
“I know. Did I ever tell you that I used to do a little modeling when I was in college?” Peggy asked, knowing the answer was no.
“No, Peggy, you never mentioned that before,” I replied, becoming more intrigued by her. I motioned for the waitress.
“I remember one designer I worked with saying that I would never make it as a runway model, because of the way clothes hung off my ass.” The waitress arrived. “Bring me an Absolute Citron shooter.”
“Just water for me thanks,” I said.
“I’ve always been a little self-conscious about it until I started working here. Some of those women in data entry put little old me to shame,” Peggy said, laughing through her best southern belle accent.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question, Peggy?”
“Depends on how personal, Tavarus.”
“Is this the most Black people you’ve ever been around at one time?”
“Yes,” Peggy said reluctantly.
“I could tell. Having to work with all those sistah’s has changed you. You’re not the same California girl you were when you got here three years ago.”
The waitress returned with Peggy’s shooter. “Don’t go anywhere.” She shot it. “One more time, honey.”
“You ought to take it easy on those.”
“I don’t want to feel, Tavarus. I don’t want to think about anything. I don’t want to feel. I don’t even want to know.”
“Know what, Peg?” I asked.
“See it’s working, ’cause I don’t know.” Peggy stood up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”