The Medusa Stone

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“He looks like Jesus.”

Abbie glared at her dark haired college roommate and gasped in astonishment. “Excuse me?”

“I said ‘He looks like Jesus.’ I could never date a guy like that,” the mousy-faced bulimic scoffed modestly. “I think it would be…” she hesitated as Abbie gawked.

“It would be what? I will tell you, Jessica. It will be fucking hot!” Abbie exclaimed as the two students rounded the wet street corner where the dangling sign of the pub creaked eerily in the wild night wind.

“No, it would be… sacrilegious. Imagine getting all hot and heavy with this bloke and in the throes of passion you look at him, and you see Jesus hovering over you, all panting and sweaty,” Jessica explained her aversion for the man they were less than clandestinely following through the streets of Edinburgh.

“Jesus!” Abbie recoiled. “Uh, so to speak.”

“See? It would just be weird. So if we can get up close and personal, you can close the deal. I mean, he is delicious, but he looks way too close to those pictures in my mother’s house,” she told Abbie, still grossed out by the unfortunate resemblance that confronted them both on this night of man hunting and pub crawling.

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