But I Thought You Liked Me!

The gin and tonic is delicious.

And I can’t take the suspense anymore.  

I adopt what I hope is a casual air.  “So,” I say, “Did you get the book I sent you?”

Sarah peers at me from over the top of her own drink.  “I meant to talk to you about that.”

I grin.  “Did you love it?”

She takes a cautious sip, continues to observe me.  Finally:  “Love it?”

I dig out a suspiciously fat lime, re-squeeze it. “He’s one of my favorite authors,” I say.  I stir the drink vigorously.  “His writing style, his use of language, his wit…”

“Wait,” Sarah says.  “His wit?”

I laugh.  “He’s the very essence of wit.”

She frowns at me.

I frown at her.

“You didn’t like it,” I say.

“Pearl,” she says carefully, “I have nightmares because of that book.”

My jaw drops.

She shudders.  “I got through the first 20 pages, and I’m thinking, holy mackerel, why did she send me this?  But I kept reading, you know?  I mean, my friend sends me a book, right?  There must be some reason for it.”

Sarah closes her eyes.  “The scene where someone was flayed alive –“

I manage to close my mouth.  I put a hand up.  “Wait.  What book are we talking about here?”

She looks at me, a glimmer of light coming into her eyes.  “The Night Soldiers,” she says.

I shake my head aggressively.  “No,” I say.  “No, no, no, no.  That’s not what I sent you. “

Sarah bursts into laughter.  “So you didn’t send me a book where people were forced to eat fish head and rotten horsemeat soup?  You didn’t send me a book where someone was eaten alive by bugs?”

I choke on the sip I’ve taken.  “No!  I sent you a collection of short stories by Sholom Aleichem! “

Sarah says nothing. 

 “Tevye the Milkman!” I say.  “Fiddler on the Roof?  Gentle good humor from a teller of Yiddish tales?”

A slow smile spreads across her face.  “Oh, my word,” she says.  “I read the whole book you sent, certain that it would become clear why you sent me such a horrifying book!”

“Oh, wow,” I say.

“Oh, Pearl, you’ve no idea.”  She grimaces prettily, shakes her head, the very thought of the book creeping up her spine. 

I grin at Sarah.  “Couldn’t be further from what I ordered.  And yet you read it!”

She smiles, pushes blonde hair from her forehead, shrugs.  “My friend Pearl sends me a book, I’m going to read it.”

By silent consensus, we pick up our glasses.  “Here’s to the unconditional nature of friendship,” she says.

We clink our glasses together. 

“And to my contacting Amazon’s customer service,” I say.