“Well, the first time with Herbie was wonderful,” Rose said, putting a soft mark on her consonants, as she wanted to convey a high degree of happiness – “but it took me five years before I knew what made your eyes roll into the back of your head.”
Louise roared in laughter.
“Five years, Rose?” she said. “Are you serious?”
“How’d it happen for you, then?” Rose said, holding her hand to her neck.
Louise tapped her finger on her chin. “Let me see. I think it was with Charlie Jenkins in the back of his Wildcat – summer of ’66 in Dubuque. Yes – but wait a minute. There was Chester Benson behind the bleachers at the stadium in the summer of ’65. Or was it Conrad Wilson in his parents’ bedroom when they were visiting their Aunt Miriam in the hospital, suffering from diverticulitis?”
“Try to narrow it down, Louise.”
“Oh, who knows. Who cares? All I know is, his name began with a C.”
“Well, I waited until my wedding night,” Rose said, arching her eyebrows.”
“You miss goody two shoes,” Louise said.
“You slut,” Rose answered.
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