Page 34 of Tito

“Hand me that shirt,” Mel said, gesturing to the few articles of clothing that lay in a pile beside the lamp. “The pink Polo. I hated him even more every time he wore it. Asshole reminded me of Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles.”

I tossed her the shirt.

She sawed the edge of the knife against the fabric. In a few seconds, the shirt fell to the ground. In her hand, only the collar remained. “He won’t be able to pop this collar again.”

I laughed at the sight. “Nope.”

I picked up the pair of Gucci loafers. I’d bought them for his birthday with money I’d made from working overtime for two months. “These furry little fuckers made me mad every time I saw them. He had to have these fuckers. Had to fucking have them. What kind of a man wears fur-lined shoes, anyway?”

She took a swig of wine. “I bet that biker doesn’t.”

I was pretty sure Tito didn’t have any fur-lined loafers. I was also pretty sure I’d never been kissed the way he kissed me. At least I’d never had a kiss make me weak in the knees the way his did.

I tossed the shoes aside. “Let’s not talk about him.”

“Still mad?”

“Yeah. He’s…” I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know. Different.”

“Different good, or different bad?”

“The good kind of different. He was intelligent. Actually, very intelligent.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because, he knew things a normal biker—a normal person—doesn’t know. I think I could actually enjoy hanging out with him.”

She scrunched her nose at the remark. “Like buddies?”

“No. I don’t know,” I stammered. “He’s just. He’s kind of cool.”

She took another drink. “Sucks that you guys didn’t bone, though.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a plan to fix that.”

“What are you going to do?”

I’d put considerable thought into the matter and decided neither alcohol nor motorcycles could play a part in our next evening together. I was going to be sober, safe, and sexually available.

I picked up the bottle of nail polish remover and the barbeque striker. “I think I’m going to invite him over for dinner.” I doused the destroyed couch cushions in nail polish remover and tossed the bottle onto the top of the rubble. “That way I don’t have to ride on that two-wheeled death trap again.”

I lit the striker. With slight reluctance, I leaned toward the couch. Halfway there with the tip of the flame, everything went black.

“Fucking lights,” I complained, leaning closer to the couch.

It burst into flames with a dull roar, illuminating the entire back of the yard.

“Jesus!” Mel shouted. “That’s not what I expected.”

I was equally shocked. Three-foot-high flames flickered above the surface of the couch. “Kinda burst into flames, huh?”

“Don’t even need those stupid lights now,” she said.

I reached for the loafers and threw them on top of the burning couch. “Nope.”

Mel tossed the Polo shirt remnants into the fire. “What about the lamp?”

“Let’s wait until it’s going really good, and we’ll toss it on there,” I said. “It’s metal and glass, so it’s not going to do much until that fire’s really going good.”