My Beautiful Beast

Some of my friends are very absorbed in their work and families.  Not that I blame them, but I don’t hear from them often.  As I scanned my emails this morning, one was particularly unusual.  I clicked on it.

“Hello my beautiful pastie!” it said.

Pastie?  As in a nipple cover for the sweater kittens?  I didn’t think that was what she meant. Mine are more like niblets than hooters.

I squinted and tried again.

“Hello my beautiful BEASTIE!”

Beastie?  I thought we were on speaking terms.  We had such a good time at Champagne-a-looza last summer.  And I drove her home, in her car (so she would have it in the morning), past the cops as she sang with her bare feet up on the dashboard.

I patted around the top of my desk looking for the new reading glasses I purchased.

“Hello my beautiful Bestie.  Happy Birthday,” it read.

Bestie – as in Best Friend.

Oh yes, thank you.  It is so great getting old together.

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