by hannah
July 29th, 2010
Photo: Christine’s Joie de Vivre
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)
I’m shuffling around the kitchen and hear my phone faintly ringing. It’s probably in the purse I took with me to last night’s lesbian affair. I rummage around… Receipts—evidence I tipped way too much again; Cliff Bar wrapper—me craving a snack but wanting to be healthy; leftover Trojan—I wonder if double-wrapping Ben would make him less sensitive…I unearth my phone.
“I’m tremendously hungover; do you have coffee?” It’s Ireland.
“What happened to you last night?” I inquire, pouring myself a cup from my just-brewed pot.
After my smoke on the patio, I went back upstairs to find that Ireland had disappeared.
“I totally got conned by that psycho, Nisha.”…
by hannah
June 4th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR)
With my cell phone still missing, I am standing at a pay phone listening to voicemail.
The first message is from Mr. Smyth, telling me he’s dismayed over our sudden disconnection and wondering if I’m free Thursday night. I smile, and then feel bad about what I did in the elevator…
The next is Ireland, telling me she’s going on a date with a man she met at the nail salon—and no, he’s not gay.
I then get a message from Nisha. Nisha! Wow, I haven’t spoken to her since college. She tells me she’s back in town (I had no idea she ever left), and that she’s throwing a big party soon and would love to see me. And Ireland, of course.
Jack has left like ten voicemails, which go something like this: I decided to call Lola myself because I couldn’t wait for you to call her; she loves the idea of a vacay to Maui and is already making plans. And she’s thrilled we’re going to finally meet her new boyfriend, Tomi—did you know she had a new boyfriend? And, oh my god! Dr. Sanchez’ wife showed up on my doorstep today, telling me she filed for divorce, and then forced herself on me. And where the hell are you? It’s past midnight and I’m…starting to worry about my best friend.
To Be Continued…
by hannah
May 24th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR)
“Do you want something from the cafeteria?” he asks putting his hand on my thigh.
I stare him down, like a one-eyed pirate. A one-eyed hurt and resentful pirate who’s had thoughts of damaging his testicles over the last three months. I notice he’s holding the cheerfully colored Luis Vuitton purse he gave me for my twenty-third birthday as well as the matching briefcase he gave me when I landed my big corporate job the following year. The black suit jacket from Express that he never approved of is slung over his forearm.
I wonder if he knows where my cell phone is. I’m sure Jack is worried about me. As my BFF since junior year of high school, we never go an evening without a flurry of phone calls, text messages, or instant messages—unless there’s another man, woman, potential sex, or a high-profile event involved.
“Your discharge paperwork and meds won’t be ready for another half-hour and I can’t sit anymore. My legs are getting sore.”
I squint. Right. Let’s do everything to make sure you’re comfortable when I’m the one who just got pummeled by a large inflatable car device. I don’t even know what to say. Sitting on a hospital chair with gauze shoved up my nose and my face more swollen than Zsa Zsa Gabor’s overdone lips was not how I envisioned running into my ex-boyfriend.
I thought there would be mood.
It would be cool, dark, and drizzly. I would be driving through the streets of Beverly Hills on my way to a red-carpet event, donning gold strappy heels, a barely-covering-my-ass sequined dress, and the curve-hugging short red trench coat I had picked up two months ago at Fred Segal, knowing The Ex would approve.
I would stop at a Starbucks for a caffeine-infused second wind—right next to his gym. He would be in his black Mercedes SLK350, about to hit the drive-through for his daily pre-gym double espresso—until spotting fresh eye candy entering the over-priced, over-rated coffee shop.
He would immediately park his panty peeler and follow me inside; his jacket and tie off, his crisp light grey Hugo Boss dress shirt unbuttoned and rolled up at the sleeves, his slacks slightly rumpled from a long day behind the desk. After staring at my backside for eight and a half seconds and running a hand through his thick brown hair to make it fall imperfectly into place, he would finally realize it was me. Closing in behind me, he’d whisper, “I knew I recognized that fine ass.”
I would coolly turn around, scan his collar for lipstick like the good old days, and be skeptical of his intentions.
He would run a finger under my chin; admit how wrong he had been to have ever told me he would never marry me; and ask whether I could forgive him, this one last time.
I would be difficult, but he would plead—caressing me like the rare Rolex he’s always wanted to afford; kissing my cheek, ear, neck, until I gave in to a passionate kiss that would instantly rekindle our torrid love affair. And this time it would be different. This time, our on-again-off-again relationship would have no hiccups. This time it would be forever…
The other scenarios were similar, but involved me on the arm of a Calvin Klein underwear model and him crouching in a corner crying over his bad decision to break up with me…
