Mia parked her junker out by the garage behind the house. As we walked around to the front of the old bungalow, I started to wonder if this introduction was really such a good idea. What if Mrs. Phyllis Reilly didn’t like Mia and wouldn’t let her stay with me? Not Christian enough. I’d have to find another place to crash—and that was not—in my lifetime—going to be Mia’s dumpy place. Too late now—we proceeded up the short cracked cement walkway leading to the front door, I whispered to Mia, “Please don’t punch me in front of my nice little old landlady.”
She threw a wild air shot to my shoulder making me skip away. She was still smiling broadly when Mrs. Reilly slowly opened the door a few seconds later. Maybe, she had been standing just inside the entrance waiting for us. It was just before ten o’clock—a little late for fashionable visiting with middle aged ladies of property.
Mrs. Reilly was the perfect hostess. She received my Snickers bar gift as if it was a large floral bouquet and an extra large box of the finest chocolates. Maybe we were the visitors she had been waiting for all these years. She offered us tea and tiny biscuits that we both happily accepted. I hate tea. I suddenly had a momentary mental flashback to one of my grandmother’s other favourite old movies, Arsenic and Old Lace. In that film, the old ladies poison all their male houseguests. I dismissed the memory quickly. Phyllis Reilly seemed to be in her glory. She wanted to know all about how and where we had met. She was interested in everything about Mia. For her part, Mia had successfully set about charming Mrs. Reilly out of her socks. At some point during the inevitable zigzag course of our polite conversation, Phyllis learned that I had been a police officer. She positively gushed over that tidbit saying, “I’ll feel so much safer now that I know that I have a policeman living with me.”
After a very pleasant half an hour of inconsequential conversation, it became evident that it was past Phyllis Reilly’s bedtime. Her meds must have been wearing off. She was having difficulty keeping her eyes open. Twice, she nodded off in the middle of her sentences. We genuinely thanked her for the tea and cookies and conversation. I again told her that I would be pleased to look after her home while she was away. Mia helped Phyllis carry the tea tray, biscuit plate and empty cups to the kitchen.
Minutes later when Mia had not returned, I forgot about red bikinis dancing in my head and started to worry. I had just taken a step towards the kitchen when the two very different women—prim, proper and middle-aged Mrs. Reilly and—none of the above—Mia returned. They were laughing together quietly—sharing some big female secret. We said our goodbyes again and left Mrs. Reilly’s front door to walk around the house to my back entrance. Somehow, that seemed more proper than just walking through her home and using the interior door to my room.
As we walked around by the garage, I asked Mia what they had being talking about.
“Oh, you know, just girl talk,” she replied coyly.
“Come on Mia, spill it,” I urged her. “You two seemed to get on pretty well. What did she say?”
Mia laughed again and then said, “She wanted to know if you were a good lover.”
“No!”
“I’m not fooling. Straight up, that’s what she asked me. She wanted to know if you were caring and considerate and met all of my female needs?”
We were back inside my room.
“This is it. What do you think?” I asked making an elaborate sweep of my hand. “And how did you answer her?”
“I cannot tell a lie. A bit cramped isn’t it? I told her the truth.”
“Which is?”
“Not bad, but room for improvement,” she giggled and rolled onto my bed.
“You must be talking about my room,” I said as I made a wild grab for her.
The Dream