Dawson Leary, I am not

My sister Joanne slapped my back so hard, I almost coughed up a lung. "Were you drunk the other night?"

"No." I knew where the conversation was going.

"Did you kiss Marga?"

"Why ask when you know?"

"Did you start it because she was tipsy?"

"Maybe she started it and I was just being polite."

"So do you like her?"

"Does she like me?"

"It just happened. She's confused."

"I should talk to HER then."

Fishing expedition failed, Joanne frowned and turned her back on me.

Marga's been travelling for work for more than a week now. And the longer I wait, the harder it is to say what needs to be said. So, it's set: Saturday afternoon, coffee, G3.

Damn, I need a new shirt.