Kent Lovely was well into middle age, and dressed in defiance of the plain fact. His midnight-black hair was gelled to a crisp. His aloha shirt was unbuttoned low enough to show off his wiry physique and his cinnabar tan. A tiny zircon stud sparkled in one leathery earlobe.
“Ciao, Molly.” Kent caught Emma and me in a hug, one in each arm. “Emma, Ai watashi kon’nichiwa.”
His culturally-sensitive salutations out of the way, Kent released us from his cologne-drenched embrace and pushed ahead of us. He pulled two plates off the stack, and started loading them up. Emma and I took one plate apiece, and followed Kent as he mowed his way through the salads, to the hot dishes, and finally over to the dessert table. He was William Tecumseh Sherman, and the buffet table was Atlanta.
Kent paused his historical re-enactment to turn back and address us. “So, ladies.” (Here he paused to lick his fingers.) “Who do you think is gonna get the teaching award today?”
“Who else was nominated?” I asked. “Besides you?”
Kent helped himself to the last two slices of haupia cheesecake, balancing them atop the mounds of pastry, roast pork, rice, waffles, and fruit piled on his plates.
“Let’s see.” One of the slices of haupia cake started to slide off its summit. Kent pushed it back up into place and licked his finger again. “It was me, Bob Wilson from history, and that minority chick from the psychology department.”
Emma stared at him in disbelief.
“Sorry Emma-chan, minority lady. Wish me luck, girls. Oh look, brownies.”