You arrive at the store and find yourself bumping into someone you both know.

You looked out the window of Miss Card's fiat, as you and Randall sped along the highway. Initially the car ride had been typical of times you'd been on trips before in the past, talking and jeering. However, with nearly an hour to kill on the road, the conversation started to fall a bit flat midway. You couldn't seem to stop thinking about the sex you had this morning. While on one hand you were elated to have finally had sex again, Randall's awkward and dismissive behavior left you with the impression that you were the only one happy with this turn of events. Try as you might, you couldn't figure out what his problem was. The memory of Randall's thunderous orgasms made you blush. Three orgasms was a lot to have. It was such a change from the time before. Despite being sober as a stone, Randall's treatment of your tryst was like a perfunctory chore to be done and forgotten compared to celebration that losing your virginities had been weeks before.

Glancing over at Randall, he seemed to concentrating on the road. The large style sunglasses he wore obscured your view of his eyes, a barrier serving only to increase the distance you felt. Was he mad at you? He had been up-beat enough when he came out of the shower, but little things in his body language almost made it seem as though he blamed you for what happened. Grimacing a bit, you thought, I didn't **** you to grind on me, buddy. Jesus...

Randall started to shift uncomfortably in his seat, pulling his shoulders back, fiddling with his bra straps. He grunted in frustration.

"You okay?" you asked.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I'll be fine." He continued to squirm a bit.

"You sure about that?"

Randall explained, "It's just my back. Lately, it's been killing me. Not to mention, this bra's fucking irritating." Finally, he settled down. "Stupid big boobs." Gazing at the smooth, creamy cleavage pushing it's way out of his shirt, "stupid" was not the word that came to mind.

"Uh, what about it?" you asked, trying to **** the conversation somewhat, not feeling particularly inclined to sit in silence.

"I don't know. This one's always been pretty comfy," he answered. "Until recently, anyways. I'm probably going to have to buy some new ones. I just hope they don't get any bigger." He took a hand off the wheel and absently rubbed at a breast. Even though you'd already had sex today, watching him do that quickened your pulse. Hearing Randall talk so candidly about his breasts was definitely turning you on a bit. Though you agreed that they were more than big enough already, a small voice in the back of your mind secretly hoped that they would grow a little more.

Randall was still clearly thinking about something. Years of friendship had taught you one thing about getting him out of a funk, asking questions. Never one to talk much about what was bothering him, you knew you had to prod him to get him talking. These days, it was easier said than done. Though in these past few weeks you had slowly grown accustomed to Randall's beautiful visage, his appearance still easily intimidated you. The pouty soft features and killer body made you inherently uncomfortable in the presence of your friend. Forcing yourself to push past this feeling you asked, "So, what's on your mind, dude?"

"What would you think if I cut my hair?" he asked, countering your question with a question.

Knowing full well that Miss Card would be a knockout even if she shaved her head and wore a burlap sack, you said, "I, uh, guess it would look alright. Are you going to?"

"I'd like to. What you said about earlier about getting ready got me thinking." Of all the things that had happened to day, you couldn't believe that was what got him thinking. Randall continued, "I don't think I can though."

"Huh? Why not?" you said, perplexed.

Randall took a deep breath. "Would Miss Card cut her hair?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Again, he repeated, "Would Miss Card cut her hair?"

Pressed for an answer, you blurted, "I don't know! Maybe?"

"No," Randall sighed, "she wouldn't. I was ready to cut it all off after the first week and mentioned that to Amanda and Carla. Dude, you should've seen the look on their faces. They acted like I said I kill puppies for pleasure. Plus, Amanda told me later that Miss Card had told her that she planned on growing her hair out. The other day when I was with your mom, I tested the idea on her. Same thing. She said she would 'never forgive me'."

You couldn't help but laugh a bit at this. "Ha, that certainly sounds like her. So, girls like hair. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Randall."

"But, Tim, you don't get it. It doesn't matter what I want. Every time I do something, I have to ask myself 'What would Miss Card do?'. That woman left enough hair care products around the apartment. Under the sink looks like a cosmetic aisle at Target," he lamented. "So, I gotta go with the flow." Stopping to think about it, you were surprised Randall wasn't more irritable all the time, having to second guess every decision. "Besides," he added, "I don't want to take any risks on losing out on these checks from the hospital. Seriously, Tim, so many zeroes." Randall smiled at you. Funk averted.

The rest of the ride you swapped ideas about what you would do if you were millionaires. You thought practically about the future: house, cars, college, maybe some charity. Randall, meanwhile, maintained that he wanted what any sane person with a million dollars would want, a zombie defense fortress with a waterslide in the backyard. The two of you were still cackling when you pulled into the parking lot of Bassett's Furniture.

As you got out of the car, looking at the newer stylish building you wondered aloud, "Why didn't we just go to IKEA?"

"Cause I'm a baller, that's why," he joked. "I want the new pad to be rocking."

"What happened to 'What Would Miss Card Do?'" you mocked, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut it, Tim," Randall snapped. "This place isn't that fancy."

Walking around inside, you browsed the array of furniture. There were varying styles of make and decorum, fake living rooms, bedrooms, and offices abound. Gazing absently at the prices listed, you found yourself wondering just how many zeroes Randall did have on his checks. Personally, you didn't have a hundred dollars to your name and it was odd to think about access to thinks like funds, a car, and a house Randall had acquired. He was making big like moves, while you were still very much sitting at the metaphorical kid's table.

Your worries didn't last long. Barely there for a few minutes, you and Randall immediately began flopping on beds and various furniture and playing house on the various sets. Though you were only joking around, when Randall pretended to be the wife in your little game, your heart fluttered a bit. You pushed the thought away, not wanting to make your good time awkward. The thought of having Miss Card for a wife was a dangerous one. As delightful a little fantasy that was, you knew truthfully that could never be.

The laughter and games were causing a bit of a ruckus in the store, the sight of the two of you drawing more unwanted attention than you realized. No sooner had you pointed out that you better settle down and get to shopping, you heard a voice call out, "Laura? Laura Card?" Holy. Shit. Your heart sank like a rock. What the odds? you mentally grimaced. You saw Randall shift his body language immediately, smoothing his hair and straightening his outfit. No matter how many times you watched him do that, you couldn't help but find the ease of him adopting Miss Card's persona and mannerisms disconcerting.

"Yes?" he answered, using Miss Card's melodic inflections.

"It's me, Terri Walsh," the woman said, walking up to the two of you. "Central High Booster Club?" she offered. She was about Randall's height, dressed casually, an attractive woman in her early forties. You recognized her from being at football games, running concessions. Her son, Brandon, was on the starting line. You silently cringed. You and Brandon did not get along very well, mostly account his shameless flirtation with Allison during last season's games. Sure, Allison had been on the cheer squad last year, but Brandon somehow thought that meant she was fair game. Randall often used the word "asshat" in conversation regarding him, not liking him much better. Regardless, here he was chatting away with his mother, bubbly as ever.

"And who's this? You look awfully familiar, mister," she inquired, using that air of condescension adults often use on teenagers.

Playing along, you quip, "Tim Connors, Mrs. Walsh."

"Oh, you're that poor Davis boy's friend. It was terrible what happened to him. I hope you're doing better. So what were the two of you doing?"

Randall piped up, "Nothing. Mr. Connors here is a student of mine. He recognized me and came over to say hello." He looked at her like "two of you hanging out" was an idiotic suggestion. Despite knowing better, seeing things like that still carried a sting.

"Oh." Mrs. Walsh cocked her head, giving you a look that seemed to say, So, what are you still doing here? Anticipating this, you smiled, raised your hand to gesture goodbye and wandered off. Randall turned at stealthily mouthed "sorry". You winked. It couldn't be helped.

You strolled about the store, careful to keep a watchful eye out to avoid the two women. After a night of drunken good times, pulse pounding sex this morning (awkward sex, but sex nonetheless), and finally slipping back into the laugh-a-minute time typical of your friendship, it was difficult to have the plug pulled so abruptly. A painful reminder of just how different your situations were these days.