hysterical! Meanwhile, Indigo tried to be the last person leaving the gym so she could flirt with the hunky personal trainer."
"The guy with the codpiece?" Libby asked.
"Right. But instead, Indigo got locked inside the gym, and had to call Jill to come and get her out."
"Jill?" Rosemary asked, apparently interested after all. "What could she do?"
"Remember the cute locksmith from a few episodes back?"
"The one who got Jill out of the car trunk she accidentally locked herself into?"
"Right. Jill's been trying to think of a reason to call him, so this was her chance."
Rosemary frowned. "What could a man possibly find attractive about a woman who wants him to commit breaking and entering?"
"It was for a good cause," Carole insisted.
"I forget I'm talking to the woman who earns spending money by marrying immigrants."
Carole stuck out her tongue, and Belinda observed, with no small amount of curiosity, the playful push-pull of the motherless young woman and the daughterless older woman. While she had always enjoyed pleasant female acquaintances, the mystique of true female solidarity had always eluded her. Perhaps estrogenic compatibility had something to do with sharing a childhood bathroom with sisters, an experience she had missed out on as an only child.
"Incoming spray," Libby announced.
Slow to recognize the signal, Belinda zoomed her window down a few seconds behind everyone else, just as a cloud of Aqua Net filled the car. Libby wielded the can like a graffiti artist, shellacking each teased hank of hair.
Rosemary's tongue darted out, and she grimaced. "Christ, Libby, you make a case for flavored hairspray."
Libby ignored her and commenced round two of her coiffure—coaxing the shoulder-length strands downward while preserving the "lift." "So how did the show end, Carole?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. My psychic, Ricky, called, so I missed the last ten minutes."
"Oh, not Ricky again," Rosemary muttered.
Libby angled the visor mirror so she could smirk at Carole. "Why didn't you ask your psychic what was going to happen on the show?"
"Very funny. He and I had more important things to discuss. Ricky had a vision about my future as a single woman."
She paused for effect, but the women were apparently used to her drama, and they waited her out. Belinda glanced from woman to woman, wondering who would give in first. At least their teasing camaraderie kept her mind off the crawling traffic, which seemed to be reproducing.
Carole emitted an exasperated sigh. "Ricky says the love of my life is right under my nose—I think he means at the office!"
Libby cackled. "At Archer? Is it one of the gay designers, or one of the gay salesmen?"
"They're not all gay."
"Other than Mr. Archer, name one straight, single male at the office."
"Martin Derlinger," Rosemary offered.
Carole winced. "Ewww, the copy machine guy? He sniffs his fingers."
Rosemary made a rueful noise. "You can't fight destiny."
Belinda laughed under her breath, while making impossible promises to God in exchange for green lights.
Libby turned around in her seat. "If Ricky is such a powerful psychic, why didn't he tell you the guy's name?"
"Because," Rosemary said, "if he told her everything at once, he wouldn't be able to collect a hundred bucks every week."
"He only gets so many visions at a time," Carole said in a huff.
"Yeah, well next time ask him for the winning Lotto South numbers," Libby said. She played the lotto religiously.
"Ricky won't use his powers for financial gain."
Libby and Rosemary hooted, then proclaimed the psychic a scam artist and Carole a fool with her money, but Belinda only half-listened, nervously drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She pressed the gas pedal in preparation for merging onto Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, a larger highway with fewer stoplights. Cars surged forward en masse, zooming from forty to sixty miles an hour in one elevated heartbeat. The fact that people weren't killed every day
"The guy with the codpiece?" Libby asked.
"Right. But instead, Indigo got locked inside the gym, and had to call Jill to come and get her out."
"Jill?" Rosemary asked, apparently interested after all. "What could she do?"
"Remember the cute locksmith from a few episodes back?"
"The one who got Jill out of the car trunk she accidentally locked herself into?"
"Right. Jill's been trying to think of a reason to call him, so this was her chance."
Rosemary frowned. "What could a man possibly find attractive about a woman who wants him to commit breaking and entering?"
"It was for a good cause," Carole insisted.
"I forget I'm talking to the woman who earns spending money by marrying immigrants."
Carole stuck out her tongue, and Belinda observed, with no small amount of curiosity, the playful push-pull of the motherless young woman and the daughterless older woman. While she had always enjoyed pleasant female acquaintances, the mystique of true female solidarity had always eluded her. Perhaps estrogenic compatibility had something to do with sharing a childhood bathroom with sisters, an experience she had missed out on as an only child.
"Incoming spray," Libby announced.
Slow to recognize the signal, Belinda zoomed her window down a few seconds behind everyone else, just as a cloud of Aqua Net filled the car. Libby wielded the can like a graffiti artist, shellacking each teased hank of hair.
Rosemary's tongue darted out, and she grimaced. "Christ, Libby, you make a case for flavored hairspray."
Libby ignored her and commenced round two of her coiffure—coaxing the shoulder-length strands downward while preserving the "lift." "So how did the show end, Carole?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. My psychic, Ricky, called, so I missed the last ten minutes."
"Oh, not Ricky again," Rosemary muttered.
Libby angled the visor mirror so she could smirk at Carole. "Why didn't you ask your psychic what was going to happen on the show?"
"Very funny. He and I had more important things to discuss. Ricky had a vision about my future as a single woman."
She paused for effect, but the women were apparently used to her drama, and they waited her out. Belinda glanced from woman to woman, wondering who would give in first. At least their teasing camaraderie kept her mind off the crawling traffic, which seemed to be reproducing.
Carole emitted an exasperated sigh. "Ricky says the love of my life is right under my nose—I think he means at the office!"
Libby cackled. "At Archer? Is it one of the gay designers, or one of the gay salesmen?"
"They're not all gay."
"Other than Mr. Archer, name one straight, single male at the office."
"Martin Derlinger," Rosemary offered.
Carole winced. "Ewww, the copy machine guy? He sniffs his fingers."
Rosemary made a rueful noise. "You can't fight destiny."
Belinda laughed under her breath, while making impossible promises to God in exchange for green lights.
Libby turned around in her seat. "If Ricky is such a powerful psychic, why didn't he tell you the guy's name?"
"Because," Rosemary said, "if he told her everything at once, he wouldn't be able to collect a hundred bucks every week."
"He only gets so many visions at a time," Carole said in a huff.
"Yeah, well next time ask him for the winning Lotto South numbers," Libby said. She played the lotto religiously.
"Ricky won't use his powers for financial gain."
Libby and Rosemary hooted, then proclaimed the psychic a scam artist and Carole a fool with her money, but Belinda only half-listened, nervously drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She pressed the gas pedal in preparation for merging onto Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, a larger highway with fewer stoplights. Cars surged forward en masse, zooming from forty to sixty miles an hour in one elevated heartbeat. The fact that people weren't killed every day
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