But no.
He has to give her his devil-may-care smirk.
I sigh and slap my hand to my head.
The husband stiffens and the veins in his arms bulge. “Are you the boy toy?” he asks. Then, “Is this the boy toy?”
Oh jeez. If he were a bull, he’d be pawing at the ground.
Josh scoffs. “I’m not the boy toy.”
“He’s not the boy toy,” I agree.
Gold unitard lady looks Josh up and down and obviously she likes what she sees （who doesn’t?） because she says, “He could be the boy toy.”
“Oh yeah?” the husband asks. Then, “You think you’re the boy toy?”
What?
Josh laughs. The idiot laughs.
“Joy, call security,” I hiss. Up to now, she’s just been watching this unfold like it’s the best episode of her favorite soap opera. I haven’t seen her this interested in anything, ever.
“What? Why? This is awesome,” she says. Then she rolls her eyes and picks up her phone.
“He’s definitely a boy toy,” Ms. Unitard says. “Yeah. He is. He’s the boy toy. And he tried to steal our spot in line.”
“What?” I squeak. “Are you kidding?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Josh says. He holds up his hand. “I’ve never been a boy toy.” Then he stops and I nearly slap my head again because he thinks for a second and then clarifies, “Actually, okay, I have been a boy toy. Quite a few times. But not with you. I’m not really into…gold. Okay? All good? Not the boy toy.”
I stare at Josh, my mouth hangs open, because there are no words. None.
The unitard lady gasps, like she’s been insulted. Then, thank goodness, the front door flings open and the building security guard runs in.
“What’s going on here?” he demands.
But it’s too late.
Because Mr. Ham-Arms has yanked the Georgia O’Keeffe painting off the wall. It’s at least four foot by six foot of stretched canvas over a wood frame.
And from this angle, I can confirm the painting is of lady parts, definitely pink-uterus-room-colored lady parts.
“You think my wife’s not worth your time? You think my wife’s not beautiful? You don’t think she’s worth your boy toyness? Is that right? Huh, buddy?” The husband lifts the painting over his head and swings at Josh.
And I swear everything happens in slow motion.
Josh turns toward the husband. The painting descends like the hand of God about to smite all that boy toy wickedness. Josh looks up with a stunned expression on his face.
Then the center of the flower/female anatomy crashes over Josh’s head. The canvas breaks, tears with a splitting sound, and the painting clatters to Josh’s shoulders.
Holy. Crap.
Josh stands stock still. His head sticks out of the center of the “flower.” He looks around the room with a stunned expression.
Then, the gold unitard lady stalks up to Josh and kicks him right where it counts.
I gasp and Josh falls to the floor.
He lets out a pained grunt.
“I’m done with you, boy toy,” she snaps.
“Come on, baby,” the husband says.
“Are you kidding me?” I cry. “That is not okay.”
The couple runs toward the exit.
I look over at Josh, he’s squatting on the ground, rocking back and forth, the Georgia O’Keeffe painting hanging around his shoulders.
He’s not a boy toy.
And all of that hormonally charged anger that vanished when Josh “called” me in Central Park is back, full force. The unitard lady dares to kick my sperm donor? My Josh? My definitely-not-a-boy-toy Josh?
I run across the room and grab one of the woman’s high heels. I chuck it after them as hard as I can. It flies through the air, hits the ground, and then spins across the floor after them. “What’s wrong with you?” I shout. “Are you crazy?” I grab the other shoe and fling it at them. It clatters across the floor.
The security guard hurries after them. “Hey. Sir. Ma’am. Get back here!”
Yeah, good luck with that. They ignore him and move faster.
I jog forward and grab the shoe again, there’s actually something immensely satisfying about throwing shoes. I chuck it after them. “He’s not a boy toy! Not a boy toy. And next time, don’t steal our spot in line. You hear me?”
I watch as the high heel hits the ground and slides after the couple.
As they reach the door, the woman turns to Josh, holds up her hand in a phone gesture and mouths, “call me.”