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She invited me to Thanksgiving, so I thought she liked me.

At least I thought there might be half a chance.

Giving the Boston-dyke-girl-with-no-car a ride to the farm should have tipped me off, I guess. Or the fact that Boston-dyke-girl was a far more aggressive suitor than I. But I talked with this woman's parents about making crafty tin can lanterns, for chrissakes.

(You have to fill them with water and freeze them...)

When the three of us decided to head back into town for post-feast drinks at 8:15, I thought maybe... just maybe, things would swing my way. After all, I'm a man who can function with 6 whiskeys under his belt. A man with a double bed, no less. I've seen a bit of life I think. I took to the streets over the war, when they were in elementary school. My god damn conscientious objector status was a done deal when they were eleven years old!

Lord, how could I have missed the signals though? When they invited Arnie to sit on my side of the table... Arnie from the bottling plant; Arnie from the bar; Arnie with the lousy grain elevator cap; Arnie who has (from the sound of it) a neglected teenage daughter. How dense was I, that I couldn't understand the line-up?

She and Boston-dyke-girl over there, giggling: me and glum old Arnie, over here.

The two of them, hip-to-hip, on the bench seat: Arnie and I, elbows on table, grousing into beers about shared custody.

There were signals, no doubt about it.

They shared armpit hair and armpit smell, and boasted: Arnie whished for three weeks vacation.

"Hey! Wanna see...?" she said.

And with all the restraint I had left, I stifled my groan, leaned over, and sniffed.

"I love you!" she laughed, "I can share anything with you and you don't mind..."

... which was essentially the problem.

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