Talking Turkey

Cathy and I had been hired at the auto plant at the same time and even though we seldom worked side by side, we had hit it off and had become pretty good friends. Over the seven years that we'd known each other we'd chatted a lot, spent a lot of time playing Scrabble online and just goofing around.

I seldom drink, and the only times I'd gotten drunk since college had been with her or with Cathy and Anne, another friend from work. We'd all get together at Cathy's or Anne's place with a few bottles of Cathy's homemade wine and just talk, sometimes for hours. I was just one of the girls, despite being a guy, and I quickly found out what women talk about when they get together and have a few drinks. I don't think Cathy knows or recalls to this day some of what the two of them said when the three of us were together. Despite being married, I learned an awful lot about females through those late night conversations.

The three of us were all laid off for about three years and we didn't spend so much time together. Anne met a guy and got married so that left just Cathy and I when we were recalled a couple years ago.

We came back on the same shift but we were posted to completely different sections of the plant so we didn't see each other much. We carpooled occasionally since we both lived in the same town 10 miles from work and we tried working out at the plant gym together for a couple months but our motivation quickly lapsed.

During all this time we were just friends, really buddies. To be honest, I don't have many, guys or girls, so her friendship meant a lot to me and I had a lot of fun around her.

It started innocently enough. It was just after Thanksgiving and Cathy and I were texting back and forth about this and that. She mentioned how moist her turkey had been.

"One of the best I've ever cooked," she typed.

"Moist is always better," I replied. "I can't eat it if it's not moist."

We'd never even traded innuendo before, but she caught on to what I was saying. "How do you make it moist?" I asked.

"Oil," was the reply. "Coconut."

"I use butter," I texted.

"That would work too," Cathy said.

"But if you're really good you don't need to use anything," I continued.

We kept going back and forth with vaguely veiled food analogies for a while, discussing spices, pie and whip cream and how variety keeps things interesting.

"Just all this talk of food is making me big," I texted. It was but it wasn't my already slightly pudgy stomach I was really referring too. Something else was getting a bit larger while we continued to chat.

"Why not chow down?" asked Cathy. I didn't respond, not knowing exactly what she meant.

The course of the conversation changed for a few minutes as we talked about how sore we were from work and about Cathy's trips to her massage therapist, her RMT. In one line of text, her phone's autocorrect feature changed "RMT" to "TNT".

"Dynamite?" I texted.

"Yep, rub it and it explodes."

This wasn't at all like me, and I was afraid that I was going to cross some sort of invisible line and not only end this conversation suddenly but maybe jeopardize a very important friendship.

"I'm trying to keep up with you but not go past," I said.

"Why not go past?" came the reply. "Walking the tightrope is fun."

"I think I've lost my balance and I'm hanging on for dear life," I said.

Since we both work nights, and it was now after 12 p.m. we both called it a night after that.

I slept well, but the few times I did wake up I kept replaying our conversation in my mind. It had certainly gone in a direction I hadn't expected. I half hoped it would be forgotten and half hoped it might continue some other time.

That next day we chatted a bit, but neither of us mentioned the previous day. That night I was moved to Cathy's area of the plant for a few hours and sat with her at break. Again, neither of us mentioned the converation.

The next night I was sent down to work near Cathy again and we sat together at break. She talked about some Christmas presents she bought online and some other stuff that was going on. I didn't say much.

"You're quiet," she said.

"I always am."

"Not always," she laughed. "Not when you're texting."

I felt my face turn read. I didn't say anything as the buzzer marking the end of break went and we both returned to work.