If the fetching and talented Jeff Singer was disappointed to be shooting the conservatively clad essayist from Alabama instead of some swank and sultry Miss February, he was kind enough not to show it. This morning when Kevin left for work, he made me promise that, if anyone asked me to take my clothes off, I’d get cash up front. I pointed out that, if I took my clothes off, Playboy would see an immediate and jarring reduction in subscriptions. Kevin was wise enough to say, “But honey, I’d pay to see you naked!” at which point I reminded him that, twelve years ago in Arkansas, he did pay to see me naked, but that’s a long and convoluted story, involving single-malt Scotch and a golfer named Mandy and a twenty-dollar-bill, and far be it from me to go into the sad specifics. (But you can read other things that Kevin wishes I wouldn’t write about here.)

Things I learned today about Jeff:
He has a scar on his right thumb that he got many years ago while trying to divest a fellow Boy Scout of his knife, but he swears he’s no pugilist.
He likes the beaches in Santa Cruz.
He’s got good tunes in the studio.
His girlfriend is in medical sales, and she keeps gonorrhea strips in her car, which is a party trick to beat all party tricks.

The exercise:
Write about a fight you almost won.