Knots and Gossip

We sit on the bed on a Tuesday night watching “Extra” or “Hard Copy” or some other such tripe. As is typical G____ fashion, she turns to me and asks (in reference to some model or actress), “Don't you think she's fat?” However, as is usually the case with G___it's not a question but a statement. No, not a statement, but a fact. Like a trained circus monkey, or a Pavlovian dog conditioned to respond, I mutter “Yeah, she's not really that good looking. She's overrated.” Satisfied with my response G___ turns back to the T.V and the obsessive-compulsive twisting of her hair into knots: she calls them “horns.” Upon crafting one of these unique creations she'll proudly ask me to inspect her form. I set down my book, and with the best of intentions I lightly feel her clever invention. “Wow that's really tight” I bemusedly say, loving the way her eyes light up and her nipples sway under my white cotton tank top she's barely wearing. So there we sit on a Tuesday night, G___ endlessly twists, and casually picks at leftover ham fried rice, all the while filling me in, as I read my book (probably Byron), on who's feuding and/or suing and/or screwing who in Hollywood.