“A moment of reserve. "That was it? The whole story?""Yes. God, you're right. That was pants."I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. "Pants?""Rubbish. Crap. Shite."Pants. Oh heavens, that's cute.”

“That was pants.”

“I blame it on his pants.”

“One regular, clockworkorange88, said this: It sucked balls. Dirty balls. Like I-ran-a-mile-in-July-while-wearing-leather-pants balls.Sounds about right.”

“It sucked balls.Dirty balls. Like I-ran-a-mile-in-July-while-wearing-leather-pants balls.”

“I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move.""You did not!""I did. And if he doesn't, then I suggest you jump his bones."...I finally register what he's wearing. It's a handsome skinny black suit with a shiny sheen. The pants are too short - on purpose, of course - exposing his usual pointy shoes and a pair of blue socks that match my dress exactly.And I totally want to jump him.”

“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you're so darn cute," Josh says.St. Clair smiles. "At least 'cemetary' sounds classier. And you must admit-this place is pretty classy. Or,I'm sorry." He turns back to me. "Would you rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.""Higgenbaum.""That's what I said. Higgenbum.""Oh,leave him alone.Besides, by the time this place closes, we'll still have plenty of time to party." I roll my eyes at this last word.None of us have plans to attend,despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.St. Clair nudges me with a tall thermos. "Perhaps you're upset because he won't have the opportunity to woo you with his astonishing knowledge of urban street racing."I laugh. "Cut it out.""And I hear he has exquisite taste in film. Maybe he'll take you to a midnight showing of Scooby-Doo 2."I whack St. Clair with my bag, and he dodges aside,laughing.”