Derivatives by Tom Mahony

She held up a photograph.  “Do I really look like this?”

He glanced up from his newspaper, studied the photo, and nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Really? Puffy and bloated?”

He froze, uncertain, hadn’t realized it was a trick question. She looked fine in the picture, but if he said that she’d accuse him of offering a generic platitude to be nice. He needed to surprise her with something unexpected and creative. “You have an incredibly sultry voice,” he said. “You could be a phone sex operator.”

She frowned. “Why, because I’m so puffy and bloated I need to hide behind a phone?”

“Definitely not. You don’t need to hide behind anything. You could be a stripper if you wanted, flaunting it on the stage.”

“Stripper? Because I’m cheap and trashy?’'

He scoffed. “No, a stripper at a classy gentleman’s club in Vegas, not a seedy dive by the airport. You’re A-list.”

“And you’ve been to both types of places?”

“Of course, plenty of times. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about here. You might say I’m a bit of a connoisseur. And I know from experience that you’re an incredibly beautiful woman.”

Her frown turned to a scowl. “I had no idea.”

He nodded. “In fact, you remind me of a woman I used to see at my favorite club. She was gorgeous, amazing.  I was infatuated with her. You look exactly like her. It’s probably what attracted me to you in the first place.”

She just stared at him.

He paused. The rusty cogs in his brain turned a little and clicked into place. He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile. “Did I just say all that out loud?”

She nodded.

He slunk into the couch and opened the newspaper. “What are your thoughts on derivatives trading?”