Continued Evidence of J.J. Dufresne's Class and Subtlety

Last spring Diana threw a Cinco de Mayo party. Usually I am the girl who goes to the bitter end of parties, a girl who will sit at the bar until close and then get talked into eating pie at the all-night greasy spoon down the road, a girl who will park her car on a side street when she's driving people home and will stay there until they have finished talking at 6 AM. But last spring at the Cinco de Mayo party, I did not make it to the bitter end. I was not there when the first-to-leaves left, and I was not there when the next-to-leaves left. I'd guzzled tequila like it was mouthwash, I'd picked up slices of tres leches cake with my hands, and I'd spooned a lot of salsa--even one that was labeled as the Sweet Christ! variety--into my mouth. That's enough to make a girl feel warm inside, like she needs to go somewhere dark and quiet with a boy.

And it's nice to know that when that happens, there's a boy like J.J. Dufresne around. A boy who will have my back. A boy who isn't the boy I've gone with to the dark and quiet place, but is the boy who, when someone asks, "Where's Jess?" will announce to the whole block, the whole city, the whole state of Minnesota that, "JESS IS NEXT DOOR GETTING THE COCK, OKAY?! THIS IS GOOD FOR HER. DO YOU HEAR ME? GOOD! FOR! HER!"