‘Broken’ by Tapping The Vein pulsed from her purse. Even as she fumbled for her cell phone, Laci Simone bobbed her head along with the music.
‘You are my weakness. You may be my down…’
“Hi Sweetheart; how was your flight? You all checked in?” the beautiful blonde gushed, smiling.
“Hey Sweetie-pie. Flight? The flight was just God-awful. We hit some turbulence over Ohio? Thought I was going to get whiplash, I swear,” Glen Simone, Jr. squawked into her ear. “So, where are you? You have today off, right?”
“Yes, thank God,” Laci agreed. “Hey, did you even kiss me bye-bye this morning? I got up you were one gone pecan.”
“Man! You must have had a whole lot to drink last night,” Glen chuckled into her ear. “I really hope you didn’t drive like that. These girls nights of yours…But yeah, I kissed you. And your boob was hanging out so I played with it and it got me all horny so I just went ahead and nailed you. Really? You don’t remember any of that?”
“Glen, you did not,” Laci giggled.
“So, what you doing?” Glen asked.
“Making those roasted pepper wraps Sharon told me about. See, you take some corn tortillas; I’m using the flour ones, hate how the corn ones just fall apart and you take some roasted red peppers and some caramelized onions.”
“Thank God PC Nation’s not charging us by the minute here,” Glen muttered to himself as his wife gave him the recipe, step by step and ingredient by ingredient.
“Don’t tell Sharon,” Laci whispered into the phone. “But I’m adding bacon. She might be all vegan, yeah, yeah, I know, meat is so bad for you but still…”
“Sooo…” Glen husked into the phone. “What are you wearing?”
“Glen!” Laci giggled again. “Naughty boy!”
Glen was sure she was twirling a strand of her knee-length whitish blonde hair as she cradled the cell phone between her ear and her shoulder. Her pale pink lips were curled up in her impish smile, revealing her small white teeth. Her blue eyes would be carefully monitoring the bacon as she cooked it. Laci loved thick cut bacon, especially the cracked black pepper flavor. Burns & Burns Grocers grocery store on Highway 19 didn’t always have the thick cut cracked black pepper bacon so when they did have it on hand, Laci always grabbed two 12 ounce packages. She would freeze one and immediately tear open the second one and plan a meal around the meat.
“Soooo…I’m wearing those black cut-offs; the low rider ones?” Laci husked.
If Laci had any flaws, it was her short, stumpy legs. Her flesh was ghostly pale; she did not tan, she burned. The black denim shorts she was describing revealed her pasty white legs and displayed a nearly obscene amount of her chubby buttocks. Should she bend over, tendrils of her white blonde pubic hairs escaped the sides, showing that she was indeed a natural blonde.
“And my butt’s all hanging out,” Laci continued to husk into the phone. “Ooh, that leather’s so cold! You know I got to sit on the barstool in these shorts; I’ll stick to the plastic chairs.”
“Vinyl,” Glen corrected.
“And I got my hair up in them two ponytails; you know how you like when I wear my hair like that,” Laci continued.
Glen could hear something scraping and deduced she was taking the bacon from the frying pan. Yes, he did like when she wore her long blonde hair in two ponytails. The one time he’d slipped up and called them ‘Dick Sucking Handlebars’ Laci had immediately taken her hair out of the ponytails, glaring red hot bitterness at him. It was three months before she would put her hair up like that again.
“And I got my Cabrini High School tee shirt on; go Cavaliers!” Laci said.
“GO Defenders,” Glen thought, smiling.
Glen didn’t know how tightly the tee shirt had fit when Laci Peterson had been a student at the DeGarde, Louisiana Catholic High School. But, seven years after graduation, the tee shirt fit like a second skin over her 30C breasts. Numerous washings had rendered the tee shirt quite thin; her pale pink areolae were barely discernable through the material. When she was excited, the crinkling of her half-dollar coin sized areolae was noticeable. Her long, thick nipples threatened to shred holes in the garment. When she pulled the shirt’s hem down, the shadow of her navel was visible through the material. But, most of the time, the hem worked itself up, revealing her 26 inch waist and her adorable little navel.
“Do we have balsamic vinegar? Apple cider vinegar ought to be good, huh?” Laci asked.
“Just bought that big old bottle what? Two weeks ago,” Glen said.
“Huh? Oh, oh yeah, but think I’d rather try apple cider vinegar,” Laci said.
“So uh, where are you?” Glen asked.
“Uh? I’m in the kitchen,” Laci said. “What? Think I’m in the living room cooking all this?”
“Our kitchen?” Glen asked.
“Yes. Our kitchen. Where else would I…” Laci said.
“Really? Because I’m standing right here in our kitchen and I don’t see your cute butt or anything else of you anywhere,” Glen said.
“What?” Laci shrieked. “No, no, you, you have that conference in what was it? New Jersey!”
“Told you, we hit that turbulence and got re-routed and that would put us five hours behind so I just decided ‘fuck it’ and came on home,” Glen said.
“I, Glen, I, I can explain,” Laci babbled. “I, it, it didn’t mean, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just, I mean, I ran into him at Vermillion’s last night and…”
“April fool’s,” Glen whispered, flopping back onto the hotel bed. “But, I guess the real fool is me, huh?”
He ended the call and lay, staring up at the ceiling. Why did motels all have such ugly ceiling tiles? The ones directly overhead even showed some signs of water damage.
He was supposed to say he was in their kitchen and she would whirl around and say she didn’t see him. Then he would say ‘April Foo’s Day’ and they would both have a laugh. But her shriek and babbling that he wasn’t supposed to be there had stifled the ‘April Fool’s Day’ in his throat.
“Guess I’m the fool,” Glen said tiredly.
His cell phone rang. It was his wife’s ring tone. He lay motionless as ‘Lovely 2 C U’ by Goldfrapp played. A moment later the song faded as the call went to his voice mail.
A knock sounded at the door of Room 112. Wearily, Glen got to his feet and opened the door. Ronnie Edwards, his immediate supervisor stood, the hand of his rolling suitcase in one hand and his garment bag slung over his shoulder. Glen stared at the man blankly.
“You are not going to believe this,” Ronnie said. “Conference got shut down. Not enough people signed up for it.”
“Great. Just. Great,” Glen sighed.
Just as Glen was about to shut the door, Ronnie smiled widely and said, “April fool’s! Hey, meet me down in the lounge in thirty minutes, okay? Patrick Turner and Jeff Landry from Turner’s are already down there; said there’s this steak place we have just got to check out for lunch.”
Glen’s wife’s ringtone started to play again. Glen nodded his head and shut the door. He wondered if a shower might make him feel human, or if he should grab a nap; the early morning flight had been pretty rough and he was feeling sleep deprived.
“Thirty minutes,” Ronnie called through the closed door.
The End.
