South Row by Ghiselle St. James Page B

my response, the bossy son-of-a-bitch. Afterwards, I gathered my troops for some good old-fashioned man hating.
    “I can’t believe he did that,” Lydia seethes. “He’s the one that came to you, talking about not getting enough. What does he take you for?”
    “Apparently, a kid,” I answer grumpily, draining my glass of the cheap wine Lydia had brought over.
    I raise my sunglasses on top of my head and reach over to grab the wine bottle. The sun is out in all its beauty today. We are lounging in the empty pool of my apartment complex on lounge chairs. Out here is usually off-limits, but when the super for the complex likes you, well, one can get away with things like trespassing.
    “It’s official, I’m going to die a quasi-virgin,” I declare. “A semi-virgin with lots of cats, who talks to her cats about her one and only sexual experience; a semi-virginal cat lady, who died a lonely death, because she couldn’t get her imaginary boner up for any other guy. Kids are gonna tell ghost stories about me!” I wail. Okay, I may be a little tipsy.
    I bolt upright with the bottle at that. “Oh, my God! I’m going to be a scary cat lady who scares kids with stories of her guy repellant vagina!” I moan, taking a healthy swig from the bottle. Okay, maybe a lot tipsy.
    “ Sweetie, you can’t give up on Operation –”
    “ Don’t say it, Scott,” I warn, shooting him a death glare.
    “ I’m just saying, South. Maybe he just needs to see you in a different light. A more grown up light,” Scott says good-naturedly.
    “ I appreciate your optimism, Scott, but if swinging on a pole half naked or baby making with him on a dance floor while fully dressed isn’t “a grown up light” then I don’t know what is,” I state.
    “ You didn’t see how he looked at me like he made the biggest mistake of his life,” I contend. “You would think I had AIDS or something. I might be in love with the asshole and willing to have his babies even if he doesn’t ask me to, but I’ve got pride.”
    “ I agree, baby girl. No more chasing of the gigantic, asshole,” Lydia agrees.
    “ Lynnie, I think–”
    “ Just, please, drop it. Please, Scott?” I beg. Scott stares at me and I know he wants to do anything but drop it. Thankfully, however, he does.
    “Ooh, let’ s go out for lunch!” Lydia suggests excitedly.
    “ That sounds good. Food will take my mind off things,” I agree.
    “Fine dining?” Scott asks.
    “Hell yeah,” Lydia says.
     
    **********
     
    We’re at Flora, a popular restaurant on Geary Boulevard that we have been to a few times. These times are only reserved for emergencies since I usually do the cooking for me and my friends.
    It is the lunch hour on a Sunday here, so it isn ’t very busy. Inside is a well-stocked bar, our usual hangout, along with the eating areas. We passed the cute bartender, Rusty, on our way in. Rusty winked at me and I smiled. He is always flirting with me. Why couldn’t I have been hung up on him? Stupid, doodie head Collin, with his perfect body and killer smile.
    Doodie head? No wonder he thinks I’m just a kid.
    What we love about Flora is that it isn’t the normal dining table and chairs setup. It is, however, a series of grouped plush sofas seated around a round coffee table. It is a lounge/eating area. Your seating is based on the amount of people in the group. At every seating area, there is also a mini flower garden, hence the name Flora.
    The sofas are cream colored without armrests. The rest of the restaurant boasts the shiniest mahogany furniture and finishings. It is cozy here, and the food is very good.
    “This food is delicious,” Lydia groans as she spears a shrimp into her mouth.
    She is having the lemon garlic shrimp scampi. Scott is having the grilled chicken and garden salad sprinkled with apple vodka – creative and super tasty, and by the time he ’s through with it, he’ll be drunk. I am currently halfway through my chicken parmesan with