Fuchsia

As in:

Flavian was granted an extra 93 seconds to floss and this was more than enough time for Chellis to position herself.

“Girls ride up front,” she announced, with sass and pride, to Astrid.

“That’s a pisser,” Gardner mumbled.

“What?” Chellis demanded.

“Right,” Gardner announced, clearing his throat. “And a good rule it is. Girls up front.”

Flavian was motioned into the back seat, to join Gardner. He was wearing a fuchsia turtleneck, another trick from Chellis’s playbook, a device to help mask the inevitable blushing.

“Yeow,” Chellis remarked, as she looked at Flavian in the rear view mirror. “Nice job on the flossing there Flaves.”

It was an eight minute car ride to the film festival and Chellis was determined there would be no awkward silences. A question about Bolivar seemed too obvious for her. Instead, she furrowed her brow and asked where Astrid came down between Bonalde and Gallegos in the pantheon of Venezuelan writers.

“Si Bonalde,” Astrid replied. “He’s for my heart, the most.”

“Ya, Ya,” Chellis replied, with a knowing enthusiasm.

In the backseat, Gardner kicked Flavian’s foot and rolled his eyes.

From his shirt pocket he pulled a tired piece of paper the size of his palm and, after scribbling on it, handed it to Flavian.

“Astrid es muy caliente,” he’d written.

“Astrid is my client,” is how it looked to Flavian.