Not As Tough As She Thought
“Stanley?” Anne rubbed the back of her aching neck.
“Yeppers, Hootenannie?” Her friend paused in the middle of applying eye shadow. He swore he was only practicing, not planning to go outside the apartment with it on.
“Do men like tough women?” She’d been thinking about it ever since her discussion with Eric.
“Butchmeisters? No way!” Stanley flayed his fingers out. “If they have any taste at all, they like sassy, young hairdressers/make up artists with…”
“Straight men, Stanley,” Anne clarified.
“Oh.” He looked dumbfounded. “How would I know? I don’t understand straight men at all. Those men are messed up creatures. Why? Are you losing one to a tough chick, Annie Flannie?”
“I wish.” Anne’s mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, I AM the tough chick.”
“You?” A pause and then peals of laughter. “You? Tough?” More laughter, followed by a snort, and then more laughter. “You” A finger pointed in her direction.
“What’s up?” Nancy wandered into the living room, a smile on her lips.
“Annie… oh…” Stanley was doubled up, clenching his stomach.
“Anne, what is it?” The red head turned to her for an explanation.
She didn’t have one except maybe there was a flaw in Eric’s theory. “Nance, do you think I’m a tough chick?”
Blue eyes widened. “You? Someone called you tough? You? Were they on drugs?”
“Tough… old… broad…” Stanley gasped out between laughter.
“Our Annie?” Those two exchanged looks and started laughing.
Something told Annie she wasn’t as tough as she thought she was.
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