From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 6: VALENTINE’S DAY MARTYRDOM)
Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments.
And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant.
And then I pass out.
I wake up feeling my hangover. I turn my head and attempt to focus on my neglected alarm clock. Shit! I’m late.
I turn my head the other way. Shit! Mr. Smyth!
I clasp at my comforter and pull it to my chin. I don’t remember whether we had sex or not. I feel my body for clothes. My bra, camisole, and panties are still on. I slowly lift the comforter and peek under it. Mr. Smyth is wearing his boxers. I deduce we didn’t have sex.
Relieved, at least partially, I jump out of bed and run in to my walk-in closet. My head throbbing, I painfully throw the remaining clothes of last night off my body and search for a new outfit.
I exit the closet in office attire.
“Good morning.” Mr. Smyth props himself up on one elbow and flashes me his terrific smile.
“Hi.” I begin tossing papers that I hope are meaningful into my briefcase. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“I better call you a cab then,” he says cheerfully, reminding me I don’t have my car here. “I had fun last night.”
He is obviously not as hungover or embarrassed by this whole situation as I am.
I smile. “Thanks.” Then I run to the kitchen in desperate need of a beverage to rid my mouth of its clingy, cotton ball taste. “And thanks for the cab last night,” I holler. “I don’t usually drink like that.” I open the refrigerator door.
“Can I get your number?” Mr. Smyth calls back from the bedroom.
I want to be happily surprised by this question. The man who I met in a women’s bathroom, got totally drunk in front of, lured home, threw myself at, then couldn’t remember whether I had sex with or not, might actually like me. But I am not able to focus on the situation. Between my head’s persistent pulsing and trying to figure out how strategically important the meeting I’m probably going to miss might be, I am completely and utterly frazzled.
“Why don’t you just write down your number for me?” I grab an OJ carton from the middle shelf and start chugging.
“I see.” Mr. Smyth says softly after a long pause.
I stare into my fridge, feeling the cold juice soothe my dry mouth, trying to remember exactly what happened last night and how exactly I felt about Mr. Smyth. I hear a honk from outside my door. I feel the silence from my bedroom. I look at my watch. I am definitely going to miss my meeting. I grab a pen from the counter and write my number on the OJ carton I’ve been chugging from.
I bring the carton into the bedroom and hand it to Mr. Smyth. “I had fun too.” I try hard to convey enthusiasm in this statement before grabbing my briefcase and bolting for the front door. “Lock the door behind you,” I remember to tell him. “And don’t steal anything.”
To Be Continued…
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2007 by Dorota Skrzypek.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.
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