“I’m starved, please tell me you cooked dinner, and it’s not another night of Marshmallow Kabobs,” Kat moaned.

Lizzie put a second tray of cookies into the oven before answering her friend. The two women had been sharing evening meals together longer than they could remember. In dog years, they had been friends 49 years. “Long day, Kat?”

“It’s Monday Lizzie, and Mondays by definition are long. Wanna know why?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes, a crystal, most definitely clear NO if ever there was one. Lizzie knew there was no stopping this conversation, braced herself and went back to frosting the cookies as an act of defiance, a silent one anyway.

“Mondays follow Sunday, which follows Saturday, which starts before I get home from Friday.” Saturday is longer than Friday but almost always pleasurable so the added hours in the day never come with resentment, and Sunday is mine all mine, for lazy mornings in bed – back in the dark days of life with a real man, Sundays were definite long mornings in bed. Remember Liz, the sort of morning when you had to change the sheets?”

Liz remembered but she wished she didn’t, but she did. No need to answer Kat, it was Monday after all, and it had indeed been a long one, besides Kat rarely finished a thought or sentence.

“Hopefully I will go unnoticed in her monologue,” Liz thought.

“Mondays are long because anything left over from Friday has to be finished. Everyone recommits to starting fresh – like calling Grandma, finishing The Fall of the Roman Empire, starting a low carb diet, hitting the gym at lunch, with so much to do and recommit to, it’s long by default.”

Kat had a point, Lizzie conceded.

The lemony-butter scent of fresh baked cookies was hard to ignore, even for Kat.

“Something smells good, but it’s definitely not Chicken Pot Pie.”

“Iced Lemon Cookies, freshly frosted,” Lizzie offered.

“You had sex today. I can tell. Your aura and body language are man-ripe. I bet you shaved your legs, and the sheets have been changed.”

“Cookie?” Lizzie determined to derail her friend.

Lizzie poured a glass of wine, carried a plate of cookies into the living room. Kat followed behind her friend, lecturing.

Jack had stopped by at lunchtime. They never planned their rendezvous, not something they talked about, at least not directly – part of the mystery, the pleasure, and the suspense of wondering when, it only elongated their time, or so it seemed to Liz.

“Kat, what does it mean to be ‘man-ripe'?”

“Gawd - you’re listening to Rob Thomas. You better pour me a double. Am I to assume your lips are bruised and tomorrow you will be walking like John Wayne, and this glow will last for days? Will there be tears of regret, self-doubt, the usual morning after pulling the petals off the Daisy, he adores me, and he adores me not?” Kat loved her friend, but never understood how she fell so hopelessly in love with her men.

“Have a cookie; I made them especially for you and in honor of long Mondays. They are your favorites Liz, the ‘soft’ iced lemon cookies which go so well with Edna Valley Pinot Noir. You can lecture me later, or better yet, skip to the part where I am writing him a ‘Lover – Please - Letter.” Liz held her breath, she was high for all the wrong reasons of course, but she felt too good and was betting the odds, hoping to savor the unexpected a bit longer, the good wine and freshly baked cookies were her cigarette after. Kat had a sixth sense and knew when Lizzie was ‘man-ripe’.

“I’ve never understood your psychic abilities.” Lizzie assumed they were psychic because after Jack, she bathed, reapplied her mascara, put fresh sheets on the bed, opened the windows, sprinkled Ajax in the shower, but still Kat KNEW. How does she know, do I really walk like John Wayne, that was all nonsense, had to be? Tomorrow she would Google ‘man-ripe’, buy a room freshener, maybe one of those Yankee Candles.

“I love you.” Lizzie said to her friend.

“No you don’t. You have nowhere to hide and are stuck with me because the FBI Witness Relocation Protection Program rejected your application.” Kat winked at her dearest friend and said, “I’ll tell you what it means to be man-ripe if you explain what a ‘Lover, Please letter’ is.”

“How many times have we had this conversation?”

“I stopped counting years ago, moot, at this point. Pour me another.”



Bio: Brenda Moguez

Brenda is a native Los Angelino, with a medium size stint in the UK spanning years. She survived one major and two minor bombings by the IRA, discovered real cheese which for her was a big deal as for years she thought it came in a box, wrapped in foil. She went mad for the Marks and Spencer’s knickers and West End theater offerings. Brenda also lost her Latin olive coloring and became pasty British white – she refers to this period of her life as her English Stepford days. She now resides north-east of San Francisco, has two kids, two cats, two cars and several pairs of ‘one size fits all’ pantyhose she bought in a fashionable London Department store that stop half way up her ‘bum’. She figures when she can pull the ‘one size fits all’ hose over her bum she will have body perfection. Secretly she is betting the odds against this red letter day. Her day job supports her habits, which consist of shoes, books, music, shoes, and more shoes. Brenda is a cosmetic junky and no amount of therapy has cured her.