Drop Dead Divas by Virginia Brown Page A

bedroom community right below the state line from Memphis, and we went to a Malco theater filled with adolescent girls shrieking over a vampire movie. It took me back twenty years. Okay, thirty or thirty-five, but I can remember going to the movies with Bitty and our friends and doing much the same thing.
    Kit, however, seemed to have had a completely different childhood. He was a little horrified by the high-pitched squealing in the theater lobby. I saw him wince once or twice, and had to tease him.
    “Doesn’t this take you back to your pre-teen years?”
    “Actually, yes,” he said, surprising me. “They’re making the same noise my dad’s old Dodge used to make when the fan belt slipped.”
    I laughed. It’s easy being with Kit. Not only is he quite easy on the eyes—over six feet which is always a plus for a tall woman—with dark hair lightly brushed with gray and lovely brown eyes, but he has a great sense of humor and doesn’t take life too seriously. I like that. Intense men are nerve-wracking. Maybe it’s because I have enough problems of my own to deal with, or maybe it’s my age, but I could never be interested in a man who came with emotional baggage. It’s rather shocking that I’ve become interested in any man, really, since as I have said before, a relationship was the last thing I wanted.
    When I told Bitty that Kit and I were friends, I wasn’t stretching the truth. We are. If we go beyond that, she’ll have to drug me to find out about it. A Bitty armed with that kind of information would be impossible to endure.
    After the movie, an action-adventure with a light love interest, Kit and I went to eat at one of the dozens of places near the theater. It was crowded and noisy. Rock music blared from overhead speakers, and there was standing room only at the bar.
    When Kit leaned close to say in my ear,” Let’s get out of here,” I was only too ready to agree. I had no desire to show my age by asking for earplugs with my entrée.
    Since there was a Sonic drive-in in the same area, we ended up parked in one of the slots while cute young girls on roller skates darted around with heavy trays.
    “I’d end up two counties over with onion rings in my hair if I had to deliver food on roller skates,” I mused, and Kit grinned.
    “Oh, I doubt that. You’re the kind of woman who can do anything she sets her mind to do.”
    That intrigued me. “Really? You think I’m competent? Have you been talking to my mother?”
    “Not since she brought Brownie in for his rabies shot.”
    “I don’t suppose he gave you a hint as to where he’s hidden my emerald earring,” I said hopefully, and Kit shook his head.
    “Not a word.”
    “I should just give up on it, I guess. Maybe I missed it in one of his, uh, usual morning deposits. Have you noticed we spend a lot of time talking about dog poop, by the way?”
    “It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. We could discuss rabid raccoons if you prefer.”
    “I’m good, but thanks for the offer.”
    He smiled at me, and reached out to touch a strand of my hair. It was probably frizzed up from the humidity so that I looked like the bride of Frankenstein, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was a really nice moment.
    Neon lights flickered across Kit’s car and on our faces. We were in his ’57 Chevy that he’d restored. It felt almost like date night in the seventies again. If he suddenly suggested going to Make-out Point, I’d probably giggle like a sixteen year old girl.
    About that time our food arrived, possibly saving both of us from a bumper crop of mosquito bites at Make-out Point. But onion rings have never tasted quite as good as when shared with a charming man on a summer night.
    On our way back to Holly Springs, Kit reached over to hold my hand. It felt nice. Very nice. We sat in companionable silence traveling down 78 Highway with the a/c off,  the windows down, and the wind making a rushing sound around the car. My hair blew into what I