by Jo Watson
He asked, “Are you coming back from a Valentine’s date?”
I replied, “No.” (Still exuding cool, aloof nonchalance, although terribly uncool inside.)
And then he said, and I quote, “I find that hard to believe. Someone that looks like you, dateless on Valentine’s Day?” And then he locked eyes with me and smiled.
Bam! I melted. Swooned. Felt explosions around us and butterflies inside. Mainly because he was just soooo good-looking. If he’d had a big, shiny bald patch and those gross white sticky patches in the corners of his mouth . . . it would have just been creepy!
For the purpose of this entry, it’s probably also worth noting that by this stage, 2:30 a.m., I was pretty well lubricated. I had hit the cocktails, hard. I could tell he was tipsy too—he had that slightly dreamy, dopey look of someone who was buzzing.
And then, fueled with uncharacteristic courage, mainly due to vodka, I asked, in my most flirty voice, “And you? Where’s your Valentine’s date?”
He replied, “I don’t have one.”
He took a step forward. Another step. Another. Until he was right next to me. And that’s when the truly amazing thing happened.
We looked at each other and then I swear I heard him say—with his mind—that he wanted to kiss me. So, I said it back, using the powers of telepathy that I didn’t even know I had. “Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!”
And he did. It was hungry and desperate and loud and messy and full of arms and legs and backs being flung against walls. A m a z i n g. Best kiss of my entire life. Sparks, fireworks, lightning bolts and atomic fucking bombs went off. And then the lift doors opened and it stopped.
I thought that was going to be the end of it. I thought this was going to become like those crazy movie moments where you land up kissing a stranger under some equally strange circumstances and then part ways—but it wasn’t.
He asked, “Do you live here?”
I replied that I did, “number seventeen” (just so he knew exactly where).
And then, lo and behold (I’m taking this as a sign, btw), he said, apartment 18—he’d just moved in! He walked me to the door and then kissed me again. Soft, slow, sexy and delicious. Then he stopped, ran his thumb over my lips and said, “Good night, neighbor. See you soon.” I repeat, “See you soon.”
Now, do you see why I needed to write this down immediately! Hottest guy I’ve ever seen before kissed me passionately in lift (and at door) and it was electric. Earth moved. Mountains shook. Skies opened to choirs of little white-haired angels. I can still taste him. My lips are tingling, and I want more. Perhaps I’ll stage a walk-past by his apartment tomorrow . . .
More tomorrow . . .
CHAPTER TWO
All the guests were staring at me, but I was frozen.
Matt gestured at me and gave an encouraging little nod. Samantha’s father cleared his throat loudly. A general murmur spread through the room.
I can do this. I can fucking do this!
“Maybe she’s got a bit of stage fright. Let’s give her a round of applause,” Samantha’s dad called out.
The room erupted into enthusiastic applause. It only made the whole thing worse.
I got up slowly and made my way to the raised platform where a mic was pinned to my dress. I took my place behind the podium and put the paper down on it, smoothing it with my sweaty palms. Hundreds of expectant eyes stared at me. I could feel them boring holes into my face, even though I hadn’t dared to look up yet. If I just stuck to my pre-planned speech, it would be fine . . .
“Hi, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Val.” At that, a few claps and whistles filled the room.
“Well, what can I say about Matt and Sam really?” I continued. “They’re perfect for each other.” I forced a massive smile before launching into the next part. “In fact, I’ve known how perfect these two were from the moment I met Sam and saw how happy she made Matt and how very, very, very in love he was with her . . .”
I could feel the thoughts in my brain distancing themselves from me. They floated further and further from my grasp and disappeared into the woozy, mucky sludge that had filled my cranium. Suddenly, everything was very jumbled.
“They are just soooooooo in love. Like, a lot . . . I mean, you should see them sometimes, it’s like ‘Hey, guys, get a room.’ ” I heard a strange chuckle escape my mouth. A few other people chuckled, but most looked downright shocked.
Things went pretty pear-shaped after that. Why do they say pear-shaped, btw? A pear has such a lovely shape. So smooth and curvy. And nothing about this was even vaguely smooth, or curvy.
“Sometimes, they just hang onto each other so much, that I want to just pry them apart with my little claws . . . hahahah!” I laughed maniacally. A tiny moment of sanity prevailed, and I realized what I’d just said. I took a deep breath—Get it together, Val—and exhaled . . .
“Sqeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” The nasal squeak reverberated around the whole room and people recoiled.
“Sorry, sorry! My nose, it’s um . . . never mind. What I meant to say is that they are very in love . . . Wait, I’ve already said that . . . sorry, hang on. What I’m trying to say is . . . is . . . uuuhhhh . . .”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I looked down at the paper. The letters I’d written were swimming on the page. The words were blurring, and a feeling was rising. I looked up from the paper and into Samantha’s angry face. She had her arm draped around a very concerned-looking Matt. I didn’t blame him. I was concerned.
My eyes swept the crowd. A few people were snickering. Some were whispering to each other and that feeling inside me was growing steadily. Getting bigger, and bigger, and . . . suddenly, the feeling was too damn big to be contained anymore. It felt like a massive balloon was being inflated inside me and at any moment it was just going to burst uncontrollabl—
“SORRY!” I shouted. “Sorry! I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, I just . . . I can’t . . . I can’t.”
I launched myself off the platform. My feet hit the wooden floor with a surprisingly loud thud. And then I ran from the room as fast as my jelly legs would carry me. I wanted to be cocooned in my safe little cubicle again, but a bloody butler holding the biggest silver platter I’d ever seen before was blocking my path to the restroom. I turned around and ran back up the passage, ducked into one of the many lounges and slammed the door behind me.
What the hell had I just done?
I needed to lean against something quickly before I collapsed. My whole body was shaking. Dizzy. Nauseous. Hot. Cold. Sweaty. Woozy and then—
“Val. Are you okay?” It was Matt! “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.” I tried to look away but he reached out and took my face between his hands, tilting it up for him to see.
And that was the moment!
That was it. It was all just too much. Too much to keep bottled up inside for a second longer. I’d been locking it away, trapping it and squashing it down for so many years. And now, it was on the verge of escaping and there was nothing in the world that could stop it.
“NO! No, I am NOT okay . . . okay?” I burst into loud sobs.
“For God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong. You’re worrying me.” Matt looked genuinely concerned. Friend concerned. My heart snapped and then so did I.
“Don’t you see?” I wailed through loud and very messy sobs. “Have you still not got it, Matt?” My sobs grew louder still.
“See what? Got what?” He seemed genuinely confused. Was he really that blind?
Have you ever watched a TV program where they show a time-lapse video of a plant bursting out of a tiny seed? It grows bigger, and bigger, until you wonder how the hell something so big could have come out of something so small. It seems to defy all the laws of nature. That’s what it was like when I finally opened my mouth. The words and feelings that had been locked away for so long were enormous and endless. They burst into the space between us and filled the entire room.
“I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU
! OKAY? IN LOVE WITH YOU. I’ve been in love with you from the second I saw you, and you kissed me and I haven’t stopped loving you every second of every day since then. And now you’re getting married to Samantha who is perfect and beautiful and I hate her for it! I hate her because you love her and not me. And we’re so perfect for each other. We spend all our free time together, but you still don’t see it. Why can’t you love me? Love me—”
I stopped when I heard it. It sounded like my voice was echoing through the rooms. Bouncing back and forth. Clearly, I was hearing things. I let out a loud, frustrated wail and it came straight back to me.
“What the . . .?” I looked up to see where the sound was coming from. Something was very, very wrong here.
“Hello?” I asked tentatively, and my voice answered right back with the same Hello.
I opened the door and stepped out into the passage again, trying to ascertain where the hell the sound was coming from.
“Ssshhhhh,” I whispered and heard it immediately. It was as if the voice of God was repeating every single word that I was saying . . .
Holy crap!
In one earth-shattering moment, I realized what was going on. I looked down at my dress, and there it was . . . the mic. Still pinned to me.
My breath started coming out in short, sharp, ragged spurts, and I followed the sound of it up the passage and into a room.
The room.
Everyone swung around and glared at me in absolute horror. Their faces were smeared with shock and utter disbelief. I felt the hot flames start at my feet, sweeping up my legs, my torso and finally my face. Suddenly, I was as sober as hell. I tried to open my mouth to speak, “I . . . I . . . I . . . Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
16 Feb.
Dear Diary,
I’m confused. And mildly alarmed. I staged several walk-bys past apartment 18 in the last two days, but no sign of him. Am starting to wonder if he’s one of these moochers that doesn’t have a job? Like from the Dr. Phil show, “My 35-year-old moocher son is living on my couch and now he’s also hearing voices” kind of thing.
I drew the line at knocking on the door, didn’t want him to think I was crazy . . . says the girl who staged multiple walk-bys. I can’t help it, though. Have not been able to stop thinking about that kiss. Something happened during it. I can’t quite explain it. But I’ve never felt anything like it before, and I’m desperate to see him again.
Anyhoo . . . I need to finish an article about the A-Spot. Yes, that is an actual thing. And did you know, only 11% of all woman have found it? (I’m in that 11%, btw.) Got to run, need to help the other 89% navigate their way in the new sexual, alphabet soup.
More later . . .
CHAPTER THREE
My foot hit the perfectly manicured lawn, and my heel immediately dug into the fresh, wet soil. I felt my body falling forward and there was nothing I could do to stop myself from falling on my . . .
Face. Dammit!
The feeling of cold soil smearing across the side of my cheek was actually a welcome relief to the feeling of nauseating embarrassment that had been surging through me in waves since I’d run from the room. Run away from all of those eyes. Judging eyes, appalled eyes and, worst of all, amused ones. The shock and horror I could (almost) handle—I could certainly understand it—however, it was the amused looks that made me feel the worst.
But clearly, my speedy getaway wasn’t exactly going as planned. I crawled onto my hands and knees, trying to pull my shoe free, but it was in too deep. I slipped my foot out of the shoe and took my other one off too, cursing the fact that I’d departed from my usual flats in the first place. I stood up and looked back at the building to make sure that no one had witnessed my fall, only, they had. My stomach plummeted when I saw some familiar eyes staring at me from behind the glass.
I turned as quickly as possible and continued my now shoeless escape. I ran across the lawn to where my rental car was parked.
I needed to get out of there.
I found my tiny red Kia sandwiched between a huge, shiny Lexus with a number plate that read “DIVORCED” and a Porsche 911 with a number plate that read “THE BOSS.” Had I been myself, I would have rolled my eyes and made a note to write an article about what personalized number plates really said about you. But I wasn’t myself. My little Kia and I needed out of there . . . and if I were to choose a license plate right now, it would have to have been FML.
I put my shoes on the bonnet of the car and frantically dug through my handbag for the set of unfamiliar car keys, but couldn’t find them.
Shit! Please, please, please don’t let me have left them back inside. I begged and pleaded with whatever benevolent force was out there—someone, anyone—although I seriously doubted benevolent forces were listening to me tonight. Oh no! ’Twas the night of dark, malevolent forces. ’Twas the night that hell cracked open the Earth and sucked me into its fiery, flaming pits. ’Twas messed up AF!
Without thinking it through, I tipped the contents of my handbag onto the bonnet of the car, and as predicted—had I been in the right state of mind for such logical deductions—everything, including my shoes, slid languidly down the curved bonnet and bounced to the floor below like dropped marbles.
“Fuck it!” I cursed again and dropped to my hands and knees, trying to reclaim the contents of my bag. But the stuff had spread so far and wide that it would have taken me ages to get it all. So I prioritized; wallet, make-up bag, tampons and shoes . . . Wait, where the hell was my other shoe?
I scanned the floor. Good news, I could now see the car keys. Bad news, I had to flatten myself like a pancake and slither under the car to retrieve them, scraping my body on the rough gravel as I went. I looked around one last time for my other shoe, but when I realized that it was truly nowhere to be seen, I climbed into the car as fast as I could and turned the engine on. I would love to say that the beast roared to life with a sense of urgency, but it didn’t. It kind of flickered on like a little one-watt light bulb.
I tossed my shoe over my shoulder and heard it thud against the backseat, and that’s when I felt the first punch in my stomach and tightening in my throat. No! I willed it away as hard as I could and started reversing, but as soon as I did . . .
“Shit!”
DIVORCED had parked so close to me that I was barely able to inch my way back. I ground the car into first, I hadn’t driven a manual in years. I swung the steering wheel as hard and far as I could—no power steering either—and started inching forward.
“Double shit!”
THE BOSS was also too close. I stared back at the restaurant. I had three options: One, go back inside and find out whose cars these were and ask them to move, not going to happen; two, I could abandon the car here, catch an Uber and come back for it in the morning; or three, I could somehow yoga-move my way out of this.
And so I did. I began the tiring near-ten-point turn that I was forced to make in order to extricate myself from the clutches of these cars. I was finally almost out, and maybe it was because I was so desperate to go and so excited that I almost was free, that I collided with it.
The sound of my little car scraping against DIVORCED’s rear bumper was ear-splitting and made my teeth tingle, as if I’d just bitten into an unripe banana.
“No! NO! No!” I looked around to see if anyone had seen me—they had!
I begun swinging the steering wheel again as DIVORCED came running out of the restaurant and started darting across the lawn. Shit, she was fast! Being DIVORCED clearly gave her lots of time for things like CrossFit. I saw another figure emerge from the restaurant and start running—it was Matt! I had to get out of here. Suddenly, a third figure emerged, I surmised it was THE BOSS, since I’d just hit his car too. They all dashed towards me and were nearly upon me when I finally managed to maneuver myself free. I pressed my foot down on the pedal so hard that the wheels spun and gravel flicked, and then I flew out of the parking space.
I raced away as fast as the pathetic one-lite
r engine could take me. Down the long gravel driveway and back onto the main road. There was a loud buzzing sound in my ears, a terrible metallic taste in my mouth, my fingers were tingling and my mind and heart were racing. Not only had I embarrassed myself in front of what felt like the entire world, but now I had also just committed a hit and run. I was a criminal!
That feeling struck again. The punch in my stomach and tightening in my throat.
I swung my steering wheel again, veering off the road. I slammed on the brakes, put on the hazard lights and burst into tears.
20 Feb.
Dear Diary,
So, as it turns out, the A-Spot is much easier to find than my neighbor and I’m seriously starting to consider the fact that I may have hallucinated the entire thing. My friends all seem skeptical too and are suggesting some kind of vodka-induced hallucination. This, of course, raises serious questions about my general mental wellbeing as a whole—or my previously held beliefs in my ability to hold my drink. I’m leaning more towards the fact that it DID actually happen, just because I have no history of hallucinations and I’m half-Russian; my grandmother gave me vodka shots to cure a cold once.
Anyway, A-Spot article is really “revolutionary” says new editor. A real “eye-opener, or leg-opener” if you will. New Woman online magazine has just employed a new editor named Davida, pronounced Dah Vee Daaaarrrrr (roll the R). She seems nice, but you know what it’s like, these types can turn so quickly—like milk left on the counter overnight.
She wants another article from me asap, still trying to decide what it should be:
1. How To Get Abs In Ten Days. (Not likely, but readers like abs, especially at the beginning of the year when we’re still all encased in that layer of Christmas blubber.)
2. Ten Things Men Wish Their Women Knew About Going Down On Them. (Have no idea what those are yet, make note to research. But suspect one is, “don’t use teeth.”)