She’s either decided to be a complete tease, or she wants me, too. I know she likes it when I’m driven with desire for her, and I clearly am, my eyes undoubtedly showing my need to have her.
“Tell me you’re not mad anymore,” I say to her, almost demand.
“I’m not mad anymore,” she flirts with me, leaning on the dining room table and pulling up her skirt as she scratches her thigh. I can see that she isn’t wearing anything under that skirt, and I know that is my open invitation to take her, now. As I close the distance between us, she entices me further by sitting on the edge of the table, revealing just enough to show me what’s waiting for me.
“Make love to me,” she orders, as if there is anything else I want to do in this moment.
“Anything,” I answer. “Anything you want.” When I reach her, she strips me of my clothes, quickly and easily. I remove her top so that I can kiss her breasts. I leave her flirty skirt on, clutching it tightly for better leverage. We make love on the table, undoubtedly awakening my neighbors below me as the feet of the table scuff the wood of the floor, second after second.
Make-up sex might be better than morning sex. I just don’t get that very often.
Hours pass as we enjoy each other, our bodies in constant contact as we alternate between lounging around, talking, and making love. She tells me I’m forgiven for what happened last night, and even though I don’t quite feel like I’m the one who needs to apologize, I don’t argue. Our day spent together turns out to be the perfect start to the new year.
Both exhausted and lying naked on a blanket on the floor, we watch the sun dip below the horizon through my west-facing wall of windows. There are no other buildings around to obstruct the beautiful view my apartment has of Central Park, and therefore, there is no need for curtains or blinds… or clothing, lucky for us.
“Are you hungry?” she asks me as the first of a couple stars comes into view. She pulls herself up off the floor and puts her sexy heels back on. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would grab her by the ankle and pull her back.
“Famished,” I sigh, not wanting to get up.
“Let me make you some dinner,” she suggests. “What would you like?” I consider her question, but it really doesn’t matter to me what she makes. As long as I can lie here a little bit longer, I will eat anything.
“Surprise me.” I grab a pillow off my bed and put it under my head, staring at her naked body as she makes her way to the kitchen. This is better than a dream.
A knock on my door startles me awake. It’s dim in the apartment, and I can taste the distinct flavor of tomato sauce in the air as I breathe. I struggle to get up off the floor to see who it is. I look through the peephole and see Emi standing there, bundled in a coat with her cute pink knitted cap tied around her head. Shit.
“Nate?” she calls out to me.
“It’s Emi,” I whisper to Laney.
“Uh… ” is all I can say through the door. I turn quickly around to find some clothes for both Laney and I to put on, confused. Do I turn her away? I never turn her away.
“Is this a bad time?” she yells back at me.
I look back at Laney, hoping to get an answer from her, as I see her walk to the door, still completely naked– except for the heels. She swings the door open in one swift move, to my complete shock and horror. I hold the clothes I had gathered in front of me, embarrassed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Emi says as she quickly averts her eyes and turns to walk away. I hurry to put on some pants and throw a robe at Laney.
“No, come in!” Laney says with false sincerity. I push past her and walk out into the hallway to stop Emi.
“Nate,” Laney calls seductively, choosing not to put the robe on and stepping out of the apartment.
“Lane, please put something on, other people live on this floor,” I plead with her. “Emi, wait.” I can tell that she isn’t about to turn around, so I rush to get in front of her. “Stop, will you?” I ask. She covers her eyes, assuming I’m still undressed. I pull her hand from her face, but she can barely look at me. It hurts more than I want it to.
“I’m sorry,” Emi says to me. “I tried to call you, like, three times today, and you didn’t answer… ”
“We were busy,” Laney interrupts.
“Obviously,” Emi blushes. “Really, I just thought we were going to see the show tonight,” she says, still unable to look in my eyes. “It’s okay, though, Teresa said she wanted to go… so I’ll just call her… ” She begins to make her way past me.
The show. Of course. I forgot about the show. Emi had received tickets to Wicked for Christmas, and I told her I would go with her. How could I forget? She was so excited about it. It was all she talked about for the past week. How had I forgotten?
“No, Emi, um… ” I grab her hand before I realize what I am doing. I turn to look at Laney, whose eyes are consumed with more anger than I knew could fill those two beautiful, brown eyes. I run toward her, seeing her intentions, and my arm is the only thing that stops her from slamming the door in my face.
“Shit, Lane!” I holler as I push the door open and grab my wrist. With a little more force, she could have done some serious damage. “What the fuck? I have a show Friday night!” Laney had already been the cause of one cancelled gig. Emi had called me from the club, fifteen minutes after my band was supposed to play, asking where I was. She said my bandmates had been stalling, but were running out of things to play. She said the crowd was getting bored. That night, I had completely lost track of time when Laney surprised me the day before my birthday. It was our second date, and the first time the two of us had made love. I was completely wrapped up in her– quite literally– when Emi had called. I lied and told her I was sick, which looked incredibly suspicious the next day when she, my mother and I met for lunch, and I failed to wipe the look of confusion off my face in time when Emi told me she was glad I was feeling better. I rarely lied to her. I hated doing it.
Laney had been pleased that I had chosen her over my previous commitment that night. After getting off the phone with Emi, thoughts of sex still playing in my head as I spoke with my best friend, I was ready to go again.
The club manager forgave me quickly, knowing I could draw a crowd like few indie artists could. It helped that it was open mic night then. I didn’t want to let him down again, though, especially for a broken wrist that would not only impede my musical abilities but also interfere with my work.
I stretch my fingers out a few times, testing my hand. Standing in the doorway, Emi comes up beside me, avoiding Laney and bravely standing in the hallway outside of the front door.
“Is it okay?” she asks with concern.
“It’s fine,” I say. We both nod and she leaves, no further questions. She really is too good to me.
“Damn it, Lane, can you get over this? We are just friends!” I begin as I close the door to the apartment. I immediately start looking for my iPhone. I’m sure that if Emi had been calling I would have heard it ring… and I know a follow-up text message will be coming in very soon. I know how Emi works.
“Doesn’t look like it,” she says, feverishly walking around the apartment, finding her clothes and getting dressed. She even makes her way to the closet and starts pulling out the other shirts and pants that she has left here on prior occasions.
“Well, it’s true. I’m not romantically involved with her… I don’t know what else to say about it.” I continue searching for the phone. Sofa? No. Couch? No. Dresser? No. Under the bed? No.
“No need,” she says curtly. I recognize the signs. She is about to dump me. I love her, though, don’t I? I have to find a way to prove it to her.
“Don’t leave,” I instruct, giving up the search and staring humbly at the floor. “Can’t we talk about this?” She is silent. After too many seconds pass, I look up at her for a response. She’s holding my phone.
“Looking for this?” she asks, precariously dangling it over the now-burning tomato sauce
she had been cooking on the stove.
“Laney, don’t, please,” I beg. “I love you, Laney. Don’t you believe me?” Doesn’t she know? Didn’t I prove it to her, over and over, today? Doesn’t she see how passionately I care for her? It is obvious… isn’t it?
“Nope,” she says as her fingers let loose of my phone, into the tomato sauce. She picks up everything she can carry and walks to the door.
I run to fish my phone out of the sauce, and nearly burn my fingers before noticing what I am doing. I pause for a second, realizing I went after the phone… and not the woman I thought I loved. Big mistake. I look up to see her disgusted face before she marches out of the apartment.
“Laney,” I start toward her.
“Don’t bother coming after me!” she yells from down the hallway.
Happy Fucking New Year to me. Shit.
Turning off the stove and throwing the now-useless phone on the counter, I look around the apartment, the one that had been spotless last night for our special evening. A torrent of passion had swept through the loft in the past couple of hours– and right out the front door. The evidence is all around, blankets and pillows strewn about, items of clothing here and there, a broken lamp on the floor… one of my favorite art pieces hanging crookedly on the wall. Even the couch is shifted about ten feet out of place. Oh well, at least it’s starting to feel like home again. I hate the feel of clean living spaces. It’s too sterile. It makes me think of the home I grew up in. All of the rooms were very tidy, everything in its place, not a speck of dust to be found. Neutral colors, whites and beiges. A lifeless home, really. My art room was my one comfort in that house. I loved that room, and spent as much time as I could in there as a child. It was the only place in the entire house where I could be a kid.
I go over to the piece that I painted a few years ago and straighten it. I distinctly remember the day I painted it. It was inspired by a different breakup, with a different girl I loved. All of my best work comes when I am in pain. The intensity of my feelings brings it out of me. I suppose the intense love I feel for these women would inspire such work, too, if I wasn’t so busy spending that time in bed with them. If there’s a choice between making love and painting, though… well, there’s no question.
Shit. Why does it keep happening? For a second, I want to call Emi, but realize that she’s out with Teresa… and I don’t have a phone at the moment.
I make my way to the shower and run the water as hot as possible. I just feel like I need to wash this entire day, this entire experience, this entire relationship off every inch of my skin. Again, I feel like a complete fool. I’m not sure how one man can botch up so many relationships. The look on Laney’s face made it pretty clear that this wasn’t just a fight. It seemed pretty… over… to me. And for such a silly reason. I did nothing to make Laney think I was involved with Emi. We are just friends. Period. Even though I have to remind myself of this sometimes, I never let on to the outside world that she is anything more than a friend to me… because she’s not… and she never will be.
I take off my pants and step in the steaming shower. If creativity comes to me when I’m in pain, clarity seems to hit me when I’m in the shower. I stay there until the faucet begins to pour out cool, then cold, water. I step out, wondering what I could have done differently today that would have altered the outcome. To me, Laney really just overreacted, went off the deep end. She has a very passionate streak, that’s what really drew me in to her, but that passion isn’t so attractive when it comes in the form of jealousy. A deep sigh escapes my lungs. I need to go get a new phone so I can try to call Laney, just explain one last time that there’s nothing going on between Emi and me. I can’t just let it be over that easy. I love her, don’t I? She’s worth fighting for… isn’t she?
I pull on some jeans and find a clean, white t-shirt stuffed in a drawer. I go to the closet to dig out my red button-down shirt and leather jacket. Keys in hand, I head out to the only phone store still open. Thankfully, they never close… a perfect convenience for guys whose jealous girlfriends douse their electronics in sauce at all hours of the night. A walk on this brisk January night will do me some good, anyway.
After I get the new phone, I realize I really have no way to call Laney. Her number is in the baked iPhone at home. In fact, the only number I have committed to memory is Emi’s. I’ll just have to wait for Laney to call me. That is, if she decides to call me.
I go to a restaurant near the theater where Wicked is being performed and get a bite to eat. Hopefully I can catch Emi before she and Teresa head home. I need to explain myself to her, too.
After a few hours, the streets outside the restaurant become crowded with people, and I know that the show is over. I send Emi a text message, letting her know where I’m at, inviting her to join me for a drink. She shows up a few minutes later, waving goodbye to Teresa at the front door.
“I barely recognized you with your clothes,” she greets me from across the quiet restaurant.
“Ha,” I scowl. “Emi, I’m sorry about tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it, Nate. I knew it wasn’t your thing.”
“But I wanted to go with you, I really did.”
“Well… Teresa loved it. It was really good… the ticket was not wasted at all, so don’t mention it.”
“I guess that’s good,” I tell her, still feeling bad.
“So what happened?”
“She left, of course.”
“I didn’t need to ask, then,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Red,” she answers with a matter-of-fact smile. I roll my eyes at her, but smile back. Emi has a theory about the color red. She insists that I wear it anytime a woman leaves me. I don’t do it on purpose, but tonight, my subconscious seems to have sold me out again.
“Right,” I sigh.
“Are you alright?”
“I just don’t get it… but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I wanted to call her, but I don’t have her number anymore.”
“Did you delete it already? That’s not like you.” She knows that I keep the numbers of all the woman I’ve dated stored in my phone. I know it bothers her, but I have my reasons. Reasons that don’t matter, realizing I’ve lost all of them now.
“No, she sent the phone swimming in tomato sauce. I don’t have her number anywhere else.”
“Ahhh… that was rude. What exactly happened? I feel like I walked in on something… although, what I walked in on, I have no idea.”
“She was just upset about something silly. I don’t really want to talk about it.” How can I talk about it with her? Laney wasn’t the first girl to get jealous of Emi. In fact, I got tired of talking about it with her. Anytime our conversations even hint at a relationship between us, everything becomes uncomfortable. It’s awkward for both of us, for different reasons only I really understand.
“Okay,” she smiles quietly as a waiter comes over to take our order.
“A glass of merlot for her, and water for me,” I tell him. “Did you want anything to eat?”
“Nope,” she answers. “I’ll never eat again after seeing her naked. How will I ever find a man when I have to compete with women like her?”
“Whatever, Em, you’re beautiful, too,” I affirm to her nonchalantly, a harmless compliment.
“She was like a goddess, though,” she tells me, and the vision of Laney– her long legs, leaning over the table in her heels, scratching her thigh, lifting her skirt– this vision lures me in again and I fight off the man in me that starts to make himself known. Not now. Not with Emi here. I shift in my seat and pull my jacket closed around my lap, leaning into the table. Focusing on the waiter as he sets our drinks on the table, my body begins to return to its normal state.
“I don’t want to talk about her,” I mention again.
“Alright,” she says, picking up her wine glass. “A toast to not talking about the goddess.”
I lift up my water, and we clink our glasses
together.
“She was so… um… bare. Do guys really like that?”
My brows slightly furrowed, I look up at her, disbelieving that she asked the question. “Are we really talking about that?” My mind wanders to Emi, as I wonder what she must look like. Fuck… I scoot my chair closer still to the table, afraid that no article of clothing or piece of furniture will be able to hide my arousal at this point.
“I guess not,” she smiles weakly. “You’re of no use to me,” she jokes. “What good is having a guy friend if you’re not going to give me a guy’s perspective?”
I tap the table to the drumbeat of the song playing through the tinny sound system, trying to focus on the tempo and figuring out the chord progressions in the melody… trying to ignore her question. I can’t. “I prefer natural, but manicured,” I mutter, looking down at the table and sighing in resignation. When I finally look up, she smiles and thanks me.
“Shut up,” I tell her, hoping to now move on. She motions that she’s zipping her lips closed. “Thank you.” She nods and sips her wine as her eyes begin to scan the restaurant.
“Oh, Happy New Year,” she blurts out.
“Yeah, Happy New Year, Em,” I stutter back, realizing we hadn’t exchanged our well-wishes for the new year.
“It wasn’t so happy,” she admits. Tell me about it.
“Oh!” Asshole... inconsiderate bastard… “How did your date go with David?” I feel bad for not asking sooner.
“He didn’t show.” She shrugs her shoulders and looks down at the table, tracing the knots in the wood with her fingernails.
“At all?” She shakes her head. “Did he call?” She looks up at me, her sad expression answering for her. “Fucking moron.”
“Yeah, I know,” she huffs, rolling her eyes and wiping away a tear before it has a chance to form.
I immediately see where her mind has gone. “Him, Emi. Not you. He’s a fucking moron for standing you up.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“It’s the truth. And don’t dwell on him… you’re too good for him. What a pussy,” I laugh. “I’m sure he’s regretting it now. Just do me a favor and tell me he doesn’t get a third chance, because I already hate the guy.” I know it’s wrong for me to discourage her to pursue a relationship, even if he did fuck up royally… I mean, maybe he had a good excuse… but I can’t help myself.