Being perfect? I wouldn't know."
"Not being perfect." I sighed. "Being…"
As I tried to come up with something, he flicked a bug off his arm.
"… gorgeous," I finished. Two weeks earlier, this would have mortified me: I could just see myself bursting into flames from the shame. But now, I only felt a slight twinge as I took another sip of my beer and waited for him to answer.
"Again," he said, as the parking lot girls passed by, eyeing both of us, "I wouldn't know. You tell me."
"Donneven," I said, in my best Monica imitation, and he laughed. "We're not talking about me."
"We could be,"