“Don’t you try to embroil me in your deviance! I’m not the one dressed like a French prostitute!”
I know I’m supposed to be offended, but I take it as a compliment. I was born in Georgia, the part that my folks back home affectionately call the Dirty South. As such, comparing me to a French anything makes me tingle with delight.
Still, I resent the undertone of condemnation toward my fellow female, particularly those “embroiled” in the world’s oldest profession.
“I should point out that I’m showing far less skin than you are right now.” I firmly clutch my long robe around me with my free hand. My eyes wander down to the hem of her below-the-knee skirt. I linger on the nude support hose beneath that hemline and raise one eyebrow in judgement. “Really! The amount of leg you’re revealing is positively scandalous.”
Her mouth opens and closes in flustered indignation. She looks so much like a blowfish, I almost break character by coughing out a laugh.
Oh, this is too much fun!
“Miss Dewberry, please,” Eugene sighs, inserting himself back into the conversation.
“Honey,” I say, batting my eyelashes just enough to make him wonder if I’m telling him to call me by my first name or addressing him with a term of endearment.
Obviously Honey isn’t my real name. Nor is Dewberry my last. But they both fit together so preciously.
Certainly better than my real name.
If Norma Jean can become Marilyn Monroe, certainly Albertha Dixon (can you even imagine?) can become Honey Dewberry.
Based on the snort of Mrs. Lemon Lips—which is how I shall henceforth refer to her, considering the present state of her mouth, now puckered with displeasure—she is not impressed.
“There should be rules about this sort of thing,” Mrs. Lemon Lips demands.
She eyes me with narrow-gazed contempt.
“Oh, but there are rules about this sort of thing,” I quip, brightening up. “According to New York State law, it’s perfectly legal for women in this state to go topless.”
“Those laws do not apply in Norton Place, Miss Dewberry,” Eugene says, ignoring my insistence that he refer to me by my first name. “We do have rules against nudity.”
“Ah, but I wasn’t nude. Trust me, I know how to keep the goodies covered.” I throw my hand in the air and add with flourish. “Leave them wanting more, I say!”
Mrs. Lemon Lips harrumphs in apparent disagreement.
Eugene sighs for the umpteenth time. “Please, Miss Dewberry.”
“Yes, yes,” I concede with a pert smile reserved just for him. I clutch the opening of my robe even tighter before continuing. “As God as my witness, I shall never provoke another ménage à trois—” I toss a sparkle-eyed gleam to Mrs. Lemon Lips. Those lips pucker even more. “— in my fellow residents.”
“Well, I can’t say that I’m entirely pleased with—”
“Thank you, Miss Dewberry,” Eugene says before Mrs. Lemon Lips can continue her complaints.
“Always, for you, Eugene,” I say in such a charming manner he actually blushes.
I think about adding something for Mrs. Lemon Lips but my Monday morning has already been brightened enough.
“Ta-ta!” I chime as I sashay back toward the elevators.
It doesn’t take long for one to arrive. Once I step in and the doors close, I release my laughter.
Oh, but I do love to tease!
When the elevator opens on the 23rd floor my smile brightens even more.
This has to be the fiftieth time we’ve happened to meet each other at the elevators since he moved in across the hall from me a year ago.
Each and every time, I greet him the same way as we switch places.
“Hello, neighbor. Going down?” I purr.
A humorless smile appears on his handsome face as he responds. “Amusing as always.”
I laugh lightly, enjoying his dry sensibilities.
You can call me Jesse. That’s what he said the first time I introduced myself to him.
I prefer Clark Kent, at least in my head. Jesse (no last name) is far too pedestrian for a man like this. I just know there’s something super hiding underneath that smart suit, those dark-framed glasses, and one very serious demeanor.
He doesn’t even look like a Jesse. A face like that, all chiseled cheeks, a sharp jawline, intelligent eyes as dark as molasses, and a long, proud nose?
No, something as boring as Jesse just doesn’t cut it.
Since that first introduction, all further communication has been limited to our morning tête-à-tête as I return from getting my latte at the same time every morning. I work nights and that first cup of something strong and milky once the sun rises for some reason seems to settle me.
Clark Kent’s face is almost as enjoyable as the cup of Joe in my hands.
“Have a lovely day, Jesse,” I say chirpily, waving my fingers as the doors close on him.
“The same to you…” He pauses, clearing this throat as though preparing it for something he still can’t quite work his mouth around. “Honey.”
Chapter Two Giuseppe
Honey.
Not just Honey, but Honey Dewberry.
Even now, a year later it still sounds ridiculous.
Miss Pink is what I’ve always called her in my head, certainly a more than apt name considering it’s the main, if not only color I ever see her in.
She’s like a walking, talking cotton candy factory. Or perhaps more like a feather pillow factory, considering how often I see those pink feathers from her robe randomly floating along our hallway.
The contrasting rich brown color of her skin somehow seems to highlight the pink even more.
The mix of the two is like some confounding confectionery concoction that leaves me spinning with a sugar high.
Still, she does have a way of perking one up in the morning, I’ll give her that.
That wavy bob framing an adorable face. Those brown eyes, surrounded by lashes in a permanent state of flirtatious batting. That wide mouth perpetually spread in a smile that seems to take up most
