The Unsecret Dialogue of Letting Go

Part 2

Part 3:

“I am going to let go now, Mr Lin…    what what it again, J?”

J had reluctantly pulled the now purple faced man’s wallet out of his jacket pocket since he had been unable to answer any of the questions given him by either J or S.

“Lionel. With one L.”

“Okay. Mr. Lionel, with one L. I am going to let go of your man bits now. It is very important that when I do, you remain seated, and you remain calm. If you freak out, then I will freak out, and we all know what happens when I freak out. Shit goes south. And in your case..”

“S. I think he understands..     don’t you?” J looked at the man and nodded slowly with raised eyebrows, willing him to nod, like it was crucial to his actually being let go.

The man squeaked. S grinned. A completely inappropriate response for the situation ‘in hand’ but about as contained as she could manage. “You have to do something about hair. I mean… seriously. You look like …”

S paused. The grin disappeared from her smug face. She stared at the mans hair, then at his tortured face, then down at his briefcase and then back up at his hair.

“J?”

J sighed. “Babe. I know what you’re thinking. And even if he is related somehow, and even if he is hardwired the same way, what are you going to do? Rip his junk off and send him home with a new hair cut?”

S blinked, and awkwardly had another sip of her milkshake. “This shit is good by the way. Thanks, J.”

“S, you are stalling.”

“No J, I am ‘deciding’.”

The man, now desperate enough to risk more pain than he was already in had become frantic. It had dawned on him that S was not actually going to let go, and that J’s attempts at talking S in to releasing him may only happen long after all circulation had been lost completely. A trip to the hospital with the explanation: Some chick mistook me for Donald Trump because I have bad hair and a pasty face – so she tried to rip my nads off while simultaneously sipping on a vanilla milkshake -in a bar – didn’t quite sit well.

The man looked at J with pleading eyes. “Southern Comfort. Please.” It was a whimper. But he managed it.

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