In my mind, the rest of the evening was a soaking wet and disasterous montage. Scattered images of yours truly running through drenched city streets since fate had ironically decided to start a downpour the second I peeped through Aidan's master bathroom door. It is eerie how I can only mostly remember the sound of rain in each of those still lifes. First, the spitting stream from Aidan's shower, lit through the steam, where I witnessed not only my boyfriend but the naked girl who was with him. A skinny little size zero with no breasts and a Brazillian wax job. Next the crack of thunder and rushing of blood as I smacked my head on the door trying to flee the crime scene. Then the gushed static of Tom's cell's bad reception when he agreed to meet me at his place. And finally the plopping of huge raindrops and the sweep of the windshield wipers in my downtown cab.
I paid the fare and got out at Tom's sprawling apartment community, breaking one of the heels of my fuck-me pumps as I dashed into the main lobby. He was waiting at the door with a fluffy towel, complete with a Floridian sunset design, and the most perfectly chilled vodka martini.
"Jesus, what the fuck happened?" These five words were all that I'd been thinking too, but Tom vocalized it as I downed the martini and sunk into his overstuffed couch. "I called Kate, she's on her way. Melanie, too, and that crazy lesbian pagan girl she's been hanging out. What's her name? Lotus or something. They're all bringing more booze." He lined up five more martini glasses and filled each with double olives, then emptied his freezer tray of ice into a decanter and doused it with more vodka.
"Those'll get warm before they get here," I croaked, my voice as froggy as I must have looked.
"Bitch, these are for you," he smirked.
Monday, September 6, 2010
1.5 Leather and Granite. Such a Guy Thing.
If you knew me, you'd know I was a total freak. Since you don't, I'll have to make the admission that I'm weirdly into looking through other people's stuff. When I was a little girl, my parents were always so guarded when I'd ask to use the bathroom in their friends houses. Mostly because they knew that it was really just a clever ruse to raid medicine cabinets or look through bedroom closets. It wasn't about stealing, of course. That was wrong. For me it was more about unlocking secrets through hidden treasured objects.
I felt the same pang of giddiness as I unlatched both deadbolts on Aidan's apartment door and slipped inside. His place is such a bachelor pad, but in an upscale, less slimey way and without the stereotypical clap-on disco ball and Barry White playing over loud speakers. It actually kind of reminds me of a chic hotel with its dark hardwood floors, white furniture with a splash of red throw pillows and heavy, chocolate brown black-out curtains. To the immediate right of the door is a galley kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Past the living room is his bedroom and the impressively simple Japanese platform bed, completely finished in a lush design spread set. Some girls would drool, I just wept.
I slung my purse over the couch and put the flowers on the coffee table, curiously running my hands over the cool, smooth leather of the stools by the bar height cutout that peered through the dining room. I was imagining this place was mine. In the back of my mind, I was still that little girl poking through medicine cabinets. Since it was still too early for him to be home, did I have time to peek in his hall closet? All in the name of research, of course.
That was when I noticed the other set of flowers. Exquisite red roses, steeped in a vase in the kitchen sink. Funny how there was no card. Also funny how after a minute of staring at his sink I didn't realize that since I'd opened the door I could hear the water running in his bathroom shower. I felt that giddy sensation again--he must have come home early so he could plan a night with me. I picked up a rose and played it against my cheek. Tom's advice was stupid. I should have known better than to think Aidan, of all men, was cheating on me.
I felt the same pang of giddiness as I unlatched both deadbolts on Aidan's apartment door and slipped inside. His place is such a bachelor pad, but in an upscale, less slimey way and without the stereotypical clap-on disco ball and Barry White playing over loud speakers. It actually kind of reminds me of a chic hotel with its dark hardwood floors, white furniture with a splash of red throw pillows and heavy, chocolate brown black-out curtains. To the immediate right of the door is a galley kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Past the living room is his bedroom and the impressively simple Japanese platform bed, completely finished in a lush design spread set. Some girls would drool, I just wept.
I slung my purse over the couch and put the flowers on the coffee table, curiously running my hands over the cool, smooth leather of the stools by the bar height cutout that peered through the dining room. I was imagining this place was mine. In the back of my mind, I was still that little girl poking through medicine cabinets. Since it was still too early for him to be home, did I have time to peek in his hall closet? All in the name of research, of course.
That was when I noticed the other set of flowers. Exquisite red roses, steeped in a vase in the kitchen sink. Funny how there was no card. Also funny how after a minute of staring at his sink I didn't realize that since I'd opened the door I could hear the water running in his bathroom shower. I felt that giddy sensation again--he must have come home early so he could plan a night with me. I picked up a rose and played it against my cheek. Tom's advice was stupid. I should have known better than to think Aidan, of all men, was cheating on me.
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