As long as it's not Sharon

Smiths and I spent a lot of time together that summer. Smiths ate peanut butter sandwiches and spoke of Russian history while I smashed a tennis ball against his garage.

'I have a girlfriend,' Smiths told me one day.

I turned around in such shock that the ball I had just whacked came back and hit me in the cheek.

'You're not supposed to be that surprised, Alfie,' said he. 'Come on.'

'Sorry, man,' said I. I well knew it shouldn't have come as such a shock; but Smiths was pasty, reclusive, and in the habit of snarfing sandwiches. How could he have a girlfriend and I not?

Of course, there was Samantha. We hadn't had a tryst in at least five days, though; I was burning for her, and she always seemed occupied.

'I'm happy for you,' I told Smiths. 'It was about time you got a girl.'

'Thanks,' Smiths said.

But I stopped. . .my blood suddenly ran cold. . .I turned my gaze back on Smiths.

I said, 'As long as it's not Sharon, that is.'