Ed first met Tiffany at the lounge down off Groesbeck. Nice tits, a huge perm of a 'do, kind of a dazed expression on her face. Big, brown eyes and a cute overbite, tall and leggy. Did I mention the tits?
She wouldn't go right back to his place, but Ed's fifteen bux for drinks did yield a phone number. She had this sing-song, little girl voice. "Sure!" she piped, over the phone. "Dinner at Shepherd's? Love to!"
Shepherd's would set Ed back about seventy-five, but he was working his way into her pants, one dead president at a time. She ate daintily, dabbing with great care at her rather oversized lips, and left three-quarters of a $29.95 veal chop on her plate. Dancing? At the Gold Door? Love to!
A ten-spot flung in the direction of the scruffy, smirking band leader got Ed a passable rendition of "The Rose". On the dance floor, Ed pawed at Tiffany like he was trying to smooth her back and buttocks flat, except he sure wasn't. A whole lot of seat there! He was at his best, smiling shyly, bashfully telling her he was almost a musician once, too, but now he's making so much money in merchandise sales...well, his dream can always come later. He punctuated the tale by buying the bar a drink; Tiffany's eyes widened, the pouty lips formed a little "o". Ed grinned to himself, thinking about putting those lips to good use.
Back in his apartment, in the sack, the girl made up in enthusiasm what she lacked in style. "Oh, oh, ooooooooh, Ernie," she moaned, and he refrained from saying, It's Ed, you silly twat. The tits were even nicer up close and personal than they were under the frilly blouse; the long legs flexed, kicked out, knocked a lamp to the floor with a crash. Ed found himself reaming Tiffany, telling her how good she was, while calculating how many weeks of commissions tonight was going to cost him. But then her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back and started bubbling happily, and he thought, well, damn, this is kewl!
The next night they stayed in the apartment, him fixing her one of his famous stuffed game hens--broads love these fancy little meals without much meat--and serving her enough wine to float a Panamax vessel. Then, away they went to the tiny bedroom for some more shrieking, bouncing, furniture-destroying fun. The wine really got Tiffany babbling, and Ed had to hear about everything from her fifth high school reunion to the part-time job at Jacobsen's to her two three-year-old nephews or maybe they were three two-year-old nephews. He nodded and smiled and got her nekkid, all the while wondering, How long before this gets old?
The next night, she brought her things. She didn't have very many things; she'd been living with another guy. Ed didn't ask. They split a pizza--Ed figured he had spent his commissions through Thanksgiving--and Tiff talked all the while, all through Forget Paris (he rented the DVD; she'd said it was her favorite), about how much she liked being with him, and what a good cook he was, and such a good lover, too. They cuddled up on the old couch; he had her panties off before Billy Crystal could tell Kareem, "Then let me be the first to say, farewell!" The beat-up piece of furniture squeaked as they bounced, but it didn't drown her out. Ed heard you could get these earplugs at Meijer's, mold right into your ears, three fifty-nine. He'd check it out.
The days were followed by weeks. The sex was great; the conversation was tedious, then numbing, then grating. At the store, Ed would be putting the finishing touches on an order for a big-screen TV and thinking about that 7 1/2 percent cut, and that damn phone would ring. He knew who it would be; Tiff was just so excited, talking about the new drapes she was getting, and the carpet, and a divan to replace that old couch. And her new hot pink A-frame suit with the matching pumps. Ed forced a smile as he waved goodbye to his customer; the commission on the TV was already gonzo.
With the new furniture and new clothes came a new attitude. Take your shoes off, she ordered, that carpet will stain. Put a coaster under that beer. There would be no more fucking on the new divan; after last night, I had to scrub it for half an hour. She has time to scrub the divan, now that she's quit her job at Jacobsen's, her $14.75 an hour job. Ed ate a TV dinner--the meat was still cold--while she yakked about the show on the TV, the crowd at the furniture store, the dent she'd put in his Buick backing into a light pole in the parking lot. Ed was ready to kill her, so he fucked her instead, relieved some tension. Besides, when Tiff was naked and bouncing up and down under him was about the only time he could get her to shut up.
He tried to get rid of her; at first, subtly. A note, accompanied by a couple of C-notes, suggested she might want to go away for a while, get some fresh air. Forget it; she was still there that evening. "I couldn't go; who would I talk to?" She'd spent the money on clothes.
Then, not so subtly. Listen, he interrupted her monologue about her nephews one night, I think maybe we should spend some time away from each other. See other people. She started to cry; no, I can't do that. "I love you so much!" she sobbed. They headed back to the bedroom; she'd replaced his old bed, which he had to admit was more comfortable, except when the payments were due on the twelfth.
