We lay awkwardly, in the uncomfortable positions of people wearing too little clothing in relation to the short amount of time they have known each other.
“So, you just moved in?” He asked, as if the thought just occured to him, despite the fact that he had spent the past six hours in an apartment full of boxes labeled “BATHROOM” and “CLINK’S MISC. SHIT.”
Despite the fact that we were laying on an air mattress, on the floor. (I hadn’t gotten around to ordering a bed yet. But I apparently had more than enough time to go out, get drunk and bring home strangers.)
“Um, yup.” I couldn’t even remember his name. Something that sounded like it should’ve been a last name. Harrison, Grant, Whibley. Something that sounded like a synonym for “money.”
“I’m actually going to try and unpack most of it today, ” I threw out, a carefully calculated afterthought, meant to give him an easy opening to initiate the impending awkward goodbye.
He didn’t bite.
“There’s a great brunch place a few blocks from here. You hungry?” He turned on his side to face me and I was suddenly reminded of how we ended up in that position in the first place: he was gorgeous. And suddenly, I was hungry.
“Starved.” I hate awkward silences. I ask questions to fill them up. “So, where is it that you live again?”
“Downtown. How drunk were you last night?” He laughed, re-looping the belt that I had flung across the room a few hours earlier.
“Oh, did we already cover that? Sorry.”
We did the Walk of Shame to the restaurant, all small talk about the weather and the neighborhood and almond-crusted french toast.
“So, Clink - is that short for something?”
“Nope.” Sensing an opportunity, I snuck in, “And yours?”
“No, Brooks is definitely not short for anything.” He shot me a knowing smile. Busted.
We got a coveted outdoor table. Brooks was quite the trophy brunch companion. The legions of Upper East Side blondes in short skirts walking small dogs all turned to check him out, and then lingered to size me up. That’s right, bitches. He’s with me. Move along.
“I’d like to see you again, I’ll just get that out of the way. In case you were wondering.”
La la la I’ve found my soul mate la la la.
“But, I should probably tell you something first.”
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
“I’m married.”
Immediately, my eyes darted to his left hand, to the ring finger on his left hand. Bare. I knew I wouldn’t have missed that, even with a couple G&T’s in me.
He followed my gaze and gave me a sheepish smile.
“Oh-kay. I’m going to go. And you’re going to go home to your - ” I started to get up.
He put his hand on my arm and I slowly lowered myself back into the chair. Because apparently when you’re ridiculously goodlooking, all you have to do is touch a girl’s wrist and she’ll sit right back down DESPITE THE FACT THAT YOU JUST TOLD HER YOU WERE MARRIED, AFTER ALREADY FUCKING HER.
“Listen, it’s not like that. We’re on the verge of separating. We’re more like roommates than anything else. The fact that we’re married has become…a technicality.”
Something pained and pleading about the way he looked at me made me hesitate for a moment. Made me shift in my seat, look him in the eyes. Stay for brunch.
Later, I would recognize that that was the moment of weakness that he seized. That split second was all it took for him to realize he didn’t have to back off and chalk the whole situation up to a one night stand. That moment was when he knew that it wasn’t the last he would see of me.
Or my mattress.
Fucker.
Okay I love your blog so much that I’ve decided to start at the top and read the whole thing through. Can I just tell you what DELICIOUS writing this is? I must have read the lines “Something that sounded like it should’ve been a last name. Harrison, Grant, Whibley. Something that sounded like a synonym for “money.”” and “all small talk about the weather and the neighborhood and almond-crusted french toast.” about 15 times. I actually spoke the second one aloud, that’s how wonderful it sounded.
PLEASE keep up this amazing writing!