In the beginning there was Aidan, and he was good.
And he looked good. Imagine the heavens shining down on his chiseled pectorals or his jawline, which despite the unshaved stubble could. cut. glass. It was as though, for him, the heavens could shine down sun or pour heavy rain, and he could alternatively tan on our super high school beach vacation or appear on my roof as a Greek god in his low cut, boot cut jeans with no shirt on. Fuck, the life of a god. I wonder now, clutching my umbrella against my conditioned-to-perfection and wonderfully diva-bobbed brow, if what had occured between us wasn't more of divine intervention than the mockery of an every day life gone horribly awry.
My name is Carly Hans, and I put two teaspoons of sugar on my grapefruit that morning, then regretted not using Splenda. Now that I don't watch carbohydrates or fat intake, I indulged in three Boston cream doughnuts, a caramel macchiato and two spoonfuls of marshmellow fluff. And I'm still a size two.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
That's my gay friend Tom, playing with his caesar salad at the Fifth Street Cafe on the Southside after several attempts to convince him that Aidan has been cheating on me. We were in the back dining room since Tom always says he can't eat on the patio when he imagines flies swarming over his dinner plate like "those damned kids in Sally Struthers commercials." Tom has been my bestie since I was wearing blue eyeshadow and listened to Journey in my '84 Plymouth Horizon back in senior year of high school. He's also as gay as the Sound of Music meets West Side Story, and I never approve of his language.
"That man ain't cheating on you. And if he's up for the option, give him my number."
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