“I don’t know, I think he said he was a Space Oil Salesman.” Maggie shrugged and took another sip from her tall glass of diet cola. Across the rickety card table, Serra sat inspecting her nails.
“I doubt it,” Serra said without looking up. “I mean, whatever.”
“Maybe it was about his dog. He’s always talking about his dog. I think it’s an Old Spice Retriever or something like that.”
“Guy’s an idiot,” Serra said, completing her cutaneous inspection and glancing up with a wry smile.
“I agree,” Maggie said in all seriousness. “Guys are idiots.”
“You have an ear infection or something?” Serra asked, and wrinkled her nose in that way she did whenever she was trying to justify this friendship.