Excerpt from The Poet's Funeral by John M. Daniel, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Still looking at me she said, "That's so sweet of you. See you then. Bye."

When we got inside our room, I said, "Well that was good of you."

"I can take a hint," Carol said.

"You think she was hinting?"

"Guy, Get real. Didn't you notice all the circulation in her boobs? What a phony."

"I noticed her boobs, I guess," I admitted. "You think they're phony?"

"No, they're real. It's her that's a phony. Trust me."

"Is this your jealousy act to make me feel tall?"

"Believe me, I'm not jealous."

"Then why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm older than you, kiddo," she answered.

"By five years," I admitted.

"And taller than you."

"By eight inches."

"And I know a lot more about women than you."

"What makes you think that?"

"Heidi Yamada, for one thing." Carol peeled off her tee shirt.

"And I'm better at business than you."

"Granted."

"And I'm a better proofreader, by the way." Off came the bra.

Wow. As always: wow.

"What's that got to do with it?"

Carol glanced at my crotch and said, "You're getting too big for your britches, big guy. Are we going to take that shower or what?"

"What," I answered. I reached for her and she stepped back.

"I'm pretty hot and smelly," she said. "I'm stinkier than you."

"And older and taller and a better proofreader. As for hotter and stinkier, give me a chance and I'll catch up with you." She grinned as she slipped out of her pants, then turned and bent forward to peel back the bedspread. Wow again. "This is going to have to be short," she told me. "We have a long shower to take and it's already fi ve o'clock."

***

Afterwards, as we stood together in the shower, Carol said, "Guy, I want to apologize. I don't know how you put up with me sometimes."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "I thought that was delightful."

"Yeah, that was great," she agreed. "For a quickie. No, I'm talking about what a bitch I can be sometimes. I'm sorry I was so snide about Marjorie."

"No harm done," I said, soaping her belly.

"Yeah, well you know how I get at ABA. I know how much you love this event, all the parties, all the hype, but it puts rocks in my stomach."

I held my palm against her slippery skin. "I don't feel any rocks," I said.

"They're there all right. I just don't like crowds, and I can't stand phonies. Put 'em together and whattaya got?"

"Bibbity bobbity boo?" I guessed.

"That's right." She put her hands under her wet breasts and bounced them in front of my face. "Bibbity bobbity boo. I'll try my best not to get too negative." She finished rinsing and turned off the water.

"And I promise not to get manic," I replied. "We'll get through this weekend."

"I know," she said. "We always do, somehow. I may hate ABA, but I love you. Now let's get dried off. We don't want to be late for the show."

From The Poet's Funeral by James M Daniel. Copyright © 2005 by James M. Daniel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of both the copy right owner and the publisher of this book.