Curled up together on my bed, as I stroke his gray shag, I stare into Chowder’s glassy black eyes.“What now?” I ask him.
He tilts his head at me. He has as much of a clue as I do.
“She is a goddess,” Mario enthuses. The toss of his black curly head clearly indicates that the word isself-explanatory enough.
I let Ludmil do the honors. “Meaning?”
Mario frowns, tugging at the orange- and yellow-checkered cravat at his neck. “Meaning she dresseslike Jackie O mixed with Madonna, looks rosier every day, dances like a ballerina, and the other day,when I tried to trip her up with giving her the wrong dessert spoon for the tiramisu, she specificallyrequested the right one.”
“Pah!” If Mario had been wearing a hat, he would’ve ripped it off in outrage. “She is
