He sighs. “Well,” he says, “your hair reminds me of picking up chestnuts when I was a kid. I know that sounds weird, but—”
“It’s okay,” I smile. “Go on.”
“Your eyes,” he says, “I don’t know, they’re like really blue.”
Okay, so he’s no poet.
“One more over here!” I call to the bartender.
The barkeep brings me another shot and I down it.
Bourbon just might be my drink. I haven’t felt the need to vomit once.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“This is too weird,” he says. “We just met, and I’m sitting here going on like I’m Wilhelm Shakespeare.”
“You’re really not,” I tell him.
Really, he’s not. “Wilhelm” Shakespeare would probably know his own name.
“Why don’t we just sit here and talk,” I say. “Where are you from?”
After the initial fear, pity and revulsion, Rick and I actually start to hit it off.
He’s into foreign films, I’m into foreign films. Of course, he’s more Godzilla and kung fu while I’m more Amélie and 8 ½, but it’s something. He likes horse racing, and I like horses running free without someone kicking them to make them go faster.
All right, so it’s not a match made in Elysium, but I guess I could see myself spending a little time with him. Probably not more than the hour Annabeth suggested, but I’ve got to get back into the swing of things one way or another.
After I’ve had drink number four, I’m starting to feel tipsy again and decide that if I’m going to make a move, I’d better do it before I’m too drunk to remember anything, so I put my hand on his thigh.
His eyes grow wide and he stares at my hand as if it’s some alien object, the likes of which he’s never encountered before, and I ask, “Would you like to get out of here and go somewhere we can,” I blow a strand of hair out of my face, trying to come off coquettish, but landing somewhere closer to clumsy, “talk?”
“Sure,” he says, far too eagerly and he’s off his stool, walking toward the door before I’ve really given a serious thought to standing.
You would think that someone in finance would have a little more poise or some sort of—what’s the word?—instinct, but this is my frog. I’m not expecting a prince.
Do I really want to sleep with a man that I’m not attracted to, though? If I wanted to do that, I’d see what Dane was up to. At least I know he’s been with a woman before.
I cringe and wait to see if Rick comes back, but he’s out the door and hailing a cab.
He must be waiting for me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I think I’ll just go out there and tell him—and now he’s getting in a cab and the cab is pulling away from the curb.
Well, there’s half an hour of my life wasted. I guess, on the bright side, I could have wasted what I’m sure wouldn’t be more than another three-and-a-half minutes with him and then another hour, clutching my knees and rocking back and forth in the shower.
I look out on the dance floor and spot Annabeth.
She’s grinding with her three finance goblins. Best not to disturb whatever strange ritual this is, but I really don’t want to leave here empty-handed.
My options this time of day in this ridiculous hole are pretty limited, though. It seems like Rick was one of the better specimens available.
What a frightening thought.
So, I ask the bartender if he’ll pour me a shot of something strong enough to forget what a waste of time my life is and when he reaches for payment, I just point to Annabeth, who, seeing the smile on my face, waves at me.
It’s close enough a gesture for the bartender to put the drink on Annabeth’s tab and after one shot of what I’m fairly certain is kerosene and a quick trip to the ladies’ room to vomit later, I’m in a cab, trying to figure out where my life went so wrong.
Chapter Eight
A Breath of Rancid Air
Dane
I’m half-asleep when I hear the apartment door slam shut.
I get up and put some clothes on. If someone’s breaking in, I’m not going to be one of those people found dead with their dick out.
Slowly opening the door, I wonder if I shouldn’t go for some kind of weapon, just in case. Leila’s not supposed to be back here for a few more hours, and as far as I know, nobody else has the key to the place.
There she is, though, stumbling around drunk, trying to scoop some peanut butter into her mouth with her bare hands.
I think she’s a bit of a lightweight.
“How you doin’ out here?” I ask, trying to sound concerned and not like I’m thinking of her as that good-girl who just got talked into breaking into her parents’ liquor cabinet for the first time.
Not that she’d really know the difference right now.
“Men are stupid,” she slurs.
“No argument here. What are you doing home so early and, you know, drunk?”
“My boss told me to take the day,” she says, holding her peanut butter hand out and making a snatching motion, “so I took it.”
It would actually be somewhat endearing if I didn’t know that I’m going to be the one who has to clean the whole place up.
“I can see that,” I tell her. “Well, I’m going to go back to—”
“Dane,” she whines. “What is it about me that’s so awful?”
“Awful?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” she says.
I’m getting the strong impression that she’s a lot drunker than she thinks she is. Hilarious.
“I don’t think you’re awful,” I tell her. I walk over to her and lightly grab her wrists. “I do, however, think you should wash your hands before you get peanut butter all over the entire apartment.”
“You know, you’re not such a bad guy, Dane,” she says. “I mean, you swear like a jackass and your tattoos look like they were done by a sociophatth—a scossiopthahh—”
“A sociopath?”
“Right!” she says, flicking her wrist in a motion that sends little bits of the chunky peanut butter flying in places I’m positive I’m never going to find.
“What was I saying?” she asks.
“Let’s get you washed up,” I tell her, turning on the kitchen sink. “You were saying that I’m not such a bad guy even though I swear and have tattoos.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning her head back.
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask.
“Let’s see,” she says, “there was tequila and bourbon…” she’s using her fingers to count. Trying to get her hands under the water is a nightmare. “Oh!” she ejaculates, both of her hands going up in the air, peanut butter landing in one of my favorite eyes. “Then there was the big shot, but I puked, so that makes four!”
“You’re not supposed to mix large quantities of different kinds of alcohol,” I say. “It’ll make you sick.”
“I didn’t drink a lot,” she says. I’m having a bit of trouble believing her. “I had four drinks.”
“Four drinks,” I say. “Sounds like you’d better ease up on that party lifestyle, you crazy animal, you.”
I don’t even get buzzed until shot number six.
After finally persuading her to put her hands under the faucet, I squeeze a generous amount of dish soap into her hand and start rubbing her hands together, hoping she’ll get the idea. Her mind is on different things entirely, though.
“It seems like I can’t attract a decent man,” she tells me. “That is, when I can attract anyone at all.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I tell her. “You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t hold your liquor worth a damn, but that’s not a crime.”
“You’re so nice,” she says, and I’m starting to get worried.
That’s got to be the first nice thing she’s somewhat-willingly said to me.
“I do what I can,” I say and give up on trying the fantasy of getting her to wash her own hands, cleaning them one at a time, myself.