Later, we retrenched on the red velvet couch. She filled a jam jar with Snapple Iced Tea and handed it to me.

"No Gatorade?" I said as a lame quip.

She was the witty one. "Mister Man, this ain't no Bedroom Olympics. Keep it real."

I stuffed the smile. "Look, my apologies but I really should go."

"Oh my gosh, are you parked in a tow-away zone?"

"I think so but, hey, it's no big sweat."

"Still, you'd better go rescue your car."

"Absolutely."

While Dreema went into the bedroom, I reassembled myself. Re-entering, she was tying the fuzzy tomato red terrycloth robe. Whap! Her bare foot stomped on something.

"Damn, I'd better fumigate for roaches again."

That remark sort of crushed the male fantasy. I got up from the couch and at the threshold halted to offer some lame, limp comment.

Dreema spread her hand and fingers to mimic a cell phone. "I wouldn't complain if you hit me on the hip some time soon, Cartwright...."