by Fiona Lexus
That night Derek and I had drinks and I found out he was an OK guy who was just absurdly walking through life doing the best that he could. I also found out that not only did he have a huge crush on me (like the one I have on Molly), but he was a lightweight. I had to practically carry him outside to hail a cab. This is where he “accidentally” kissed me. He actually said, “Sorry, I slipped,” and then continued by vomiting in the street.
I instantly forgave him of course, because lord knows the amount of times I have been wasted and not in control of my actions (or bodily functions). I released the events of that night from my brain and returned to my apartment to snuggle up and watch my favorite episodes of Chelsea Handler.
I think of that night as a success because not only do I have great leverage on my boss now, but I got some amazing, gory details about his life and the triumphs and tribulations of a man named Derek.
So tonight, as I sit here disgusted with his treadmill exercises and the length of his torso (so not normal!), I am reminded of the fool he really is and how we are all just fools in love at some point. I, so far, have not vomited or kissed Molly but intend to later tonight in my dreams. Because her lips are so ready for it and I can only imagine what else is going on in that apartment of hers.
Gosh she is a fucking bitch.
A beautiful fucking bitch. And I am Derek’s Molly. Wow.
3
Jonathan
It’s 1AM and I’m perusing through my fridge to see if anything might be edible. I’m always so starving after work and usually stop by this 24/7 Mexican joint on the way home, but I bypassed it tonight and could hardly wait to get my hands on some grub when I reached my door. Of course every time I have an incredible urge to pee or to eat or my house phone is ringing and I have to grab it, I can’t ever fucking just open my door! My key jams in the lock or I drop something and have to shimmy my way inside, turn on the light, trip over the cat (who intentionally stands in my way) and fumble to my destination.
When I really have to pee in a hurry, I can’t even be bothered to turn on the light. I just squat in the dark and the amazing sensation of freeing up my bladder takes full effect. Not thinking about making an actual meal, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and slathered it on some sourdough. Not too shabby indeed! Very satisfying at this time of night. I return to the couch, take off all of my clothes except for my underwear and begin searching Netflix for my next binge-watching experience.
You may be wondering, since I work at a gym, if I work out. See, here is the thing: working out is really hard. It takes motivation and I seem to have very little of that these days, so I figure my workout is the walk I take from home to work and back. I really need to start doing cocaine or something. Isn’t that supposed to give you motivation? Anyways, I am not THAT GIRL. The one who has a “bangin’ body”, as the young douche bag men say. Is douche bag still a credible description? Well, I’m using it.
It’s not that I like walking to and from work when it’s zero degrees outside - nor do I like getting shit from my mom about male-predators (she has about a million rape-by-streetlight stories securely stored in her cranium) - it’s because I hate taxis. They are a death trap, and always smell of the person who was in them before you.
Once I entered one right as a large, older gentleman was coming out. I, of course, am always charmed by the elderly, so I held the door for him as he used his cane to propel his largeness up onto the sidewalk and waddle away. He was so precious. Or so I thought. This fucker had just shit his pants, and it was plain rude! Right there in the Taxi, and I am sure the Mexican-American named Jesus who was driving the yellow van was horrified, but unable to publicly humiliate a greying and sloppy senior citizen.
“At least wait to shit yourself when you are sitting in your retirement facility listening to Janet play ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ on the piano for the hundredth time, old man!” I yelled to myself. “Don’t shit your pants in the cab! That was in bad taste sir, very bad taste.”
I fall asleep on the couch. It is a Friday night and I can do whatever I want. It is a good night because Gertie decides to lay with me and I can hardly believe it. I must be giving off some great vibes. I settle for watching Twilight because
A) I am super attracted to both main characters and in one fantasy I have, they both sneak into my room, tie me up, drain my blood and then finger me until I come. Now, now kids, don’t get all judgmental. You all have had this same fantasy about Bella and Edward. Just be honest with yourselves.
And, B) Everything else on here seems uninteresting.
I fall asleep on the couch, which is a regular occurrence for me and Gertie. I wake up to the light coming through my living room window, and to the cat asking me to feed her. Over and over and over again. “Ok you little B!” I say as I get up off of the couch.
My bra and panties are on, but my clothes from work are scattered on the floor. I pour some food for Gertie, and as I am folding her cat food bag closed and lifting it onto the top of the refrigerator (which is very high for a 5’3” tall person such as myself), there is a knock at the door.
Now, usually this is Bart. He is the superintendent and he comes around on the weekends to check if there is anything that needs mending. He’s a sweet black guy in his mid-fifties, and trust me, Bart is a talker. I’ve had him in for coffee before and he tells great stories about “the old days growing up in the Bronx”. I love shit like that, people telling their life adventures and being proud of the lives they live. Bart is real and he isn’t full of bullshit like most people.
“Hold on!” I scream as I run for my robe in the bedroom. My robe is more like a piece of silk fabric my mother gave me one year at Christmas. She stated that it would “bring in the right type of man”. I am still very unclear what she meant by that. But it’s black and I like black and so here we are.
It is thin and not very warm I am noticing. As I open the door I can feel my hard nipples against the fabric and I immediately regret grabbing this clothing option. I open the door and to my surprise it’s Jonathan, Molly’s husband. Now I am really regretting this clothing option. My black hair is a mess and I move it off of my face and tuck it behind my ears.
“Um, hey!” I say, oddly leaning against the doorway.
“Hi, Emily right?” Jonathan says.
I hate it when you have met someone like eight times, and every time you see them, they act as if they don’t know your fucking name. “Yes my name is Emily, we have met…”
- He interrupts me-
“Yes of course I know who you are, sorry.” He pauses, and I am very confused as to why he is at my door. I catch him looking at my breasts. I fold my arms over my chest. “Sorry to bother you but I’m late for work…”
- Now I interrupt him-
“You work on Saturdays?” I ask, creasing my eyebrows together, suspicious of his intentions.
“Actually I have a ton of work to do on this one case. I was wondering if you had those gloves of Molly’s? I heard you come by the other day and we were having an argument and I’m sorry if she was rude to you.”
I stood there waiting to hear more intimate details such as: did you guys have make-up sex? What was it like? Can I join in next time?
Instead, he continued: “Look, the thing is I got those for her for our anniversary and…”
-I interrupt again-
“Say no more, I’ll grab them.”
I leave him at the door and walk over to my discreet smoking lounge and grab the gloves. I walk back over to the door, very aware that I am half-naked in this dainty robe my crazy mother got for me. I have always been under the impression that robes are designed to keep one warm and cozy when one hops out of one’s shower. Hmmm, interesting intentions robe! Her intentions say: “look through me because it’s not hard to do. Imagine this body and all of the things you might want to do to it.” Thankfully, Jonathan seems like a gentleman.
I pause a moment to take him in as I hand over the gloves. His features: blue e
yes and brown slicked back hair and a five o’clock shadow. He is tall, but not creepy tall like Derek. “Thanks,” he says, slapping the gloves against his hands. There is a warmth about him. Sort of the opposite of Molly. She is just sex, sex, sex. He is more like Sex, cuddle, cuddle.
“Ya, anytime. I mean, she should really take care of her things. You know, if they are important to her…” And this is why I didn’t major in communications. Ugh, I hate when I am like this. Just tell him bye and close the door.
No. Instead there is a long pause. (His eyes are really amazing, I never noticed this before.) There is a silence where, for a moment, he seems to be pondering my advice, and questioning his whole life process. Or he is just thinking of me naked? Either way it’s been far too long standing in the doorway so I just shut the door on him.
Oh, God.
That was rude.
I open it back up and see that he is walking away. “Hey Jonathan!” He turns and nods his head, staring at me (in the face, only the face) I didn’t come up with a plan of what to say, so I said the first thing that comes to mind: “full moon tonight, watch yourself…”
What. The. Hell.
Ugh.
But, he replies…
“I know actually, the moon cycle is super interesting! Anyways have a great day, Emily, and thanks again!” I decide that he is probably the nicest person in New York City.
Hmmm…
Interesting come-back. He is good. Really good.
I shut the door and return to my underwear status. Just as I am getting cozy with a bowl of cereal, my door becomes loud again. Shit.
“Hang on!”
This time I put on real clothes, and thankfully I did because it isn’t my hot neighbor knocking, it’s Bart. I invite him in for coffee. He fixes the lightbulb in my bathroom and takes note of some mold in the kitchen.
4
Mother
She visits once a year and it is quite the spectacle. She always wants me to take her to the newest bars and restaurants, and we “must see a show!” It’s all good because mother pays, and really, she is very generous.
Her English accent always intrigues people, but unfortunately for me, we usually end up in an hour long conversation with a total stranger.
This time it’s nearing winter and a snowstorm delays her flight. I’m waiting at the airport for almost four hours, alone, drinking coffee and reading my newest guilty pleasure: LUST AND BUST, A GIRL ON GIRL CRIME. Of course I cover the book with another book, THE FAR PAVILIONS, so when my mother arrives she sees her wonderful daughter reading up on the British Empire and one of its many tragic conquerings: India.
I am sitting and reading and actually having a really great time. The airport coffee is pretty good and I am simultaneously people watching, which in New York is just about the best thing ever. I look up and see a women in a black pant suit and jacket, fighting with her luggage and clip-clopping her heels against the floor at an excessive rate.
Oh.
It’s mother.
By the way, her name is Gwyneth, but people call her Gwen or Gigi or G. I pause for a second and decide if I should go and help her, or if I should just sit here and wait for her to take her ridiculous self down the escalator to the lobby, then meet up with her there in an impromptu “hey mom, where have you been? I have been looking for you!” sort of way.
I decided I should get up and help her. After twenty exhaustible minutes, we manage to reach the baggage claim and retrieve six more cases of black luggage. I sigh and head for the trolley-cart thingy airports provide to help us. When I return to my mother a man is talking to her and she is posturing in a most seductive manner.
“Mother! Oh mother…” I call for her as I walk up. “Father just called and says that your rhinoplasty is scheduled for Tuesday, not Thursday, so we better get you home.” Gwen, British and beside herself, apologizes to the good looking older man in a suit and grabs my arm.
“Emily, why must you be like this?” I pull my arm away and smile. “Because it’s way more fun than being like that.” And I nod to her bosom.
The next few hours consist of snow, taxis (again, the worst) and two trips of carrying luggage up to my apartment, finally ending with me sleeping on the couch while my mother takes over my bedroom.
The next day she asks, “Em, darling, let’s do nails! Mine look a fright.” Ugh.
“Mom, I bite my nails, so what’s the point in that really?” I scream back at her in the bedroom. I am half listening to her and half watching The Walking Dead on mute because she “can’t handle the sounds”. Gertie has taken refuge in the closet and I feel for her because no one deserves an interruption like the one we have had to endure.
I give in, and mother and I head north to the nail shop; one that she found and says has ‘the best reviews’. Like I care. I wouldn’t really know the difference.
We are sitting down next to each other. My mother has a male nail (artist, do you call them?)…anyways a male Asian, which I think surprises her. She isn’t sure if she should flirt or treat him as a female or a slave or what. So she goes with the flirting route.
I’m embarrassed.
My nail (artist?) is very shy and, like me, keeps to herself. I soon realize that she does not speak English.
“Can I get a design on my thumbs?” I say.
No response.
“Like a skull or a seahorse or something?”
No response, just a smile as her eyes lift up.
“Or, you know, whatever you want…” I finished.
The male nail (artist?) smiles up at me and asks where I am from and what I do. He is a young guy, probably my age. His hair is slicked back with way too much gel. He has on skinny black jeans and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up like some Asian James Dean. I give him the shortest possible answers and smile. Mother butts in with her life story.
I ask my girl again… “What kind of design are you thinking?”
No answer.
The male artist asks “You want a design?”
“Yes, can you tell her?” I plead.
“How about I tell her to design my phone number on there…?” He says, very proud of himself, throwing his head back laughing.
“Oh, God, please…” I say out loud and roll my eyes. My mother however finds this charming and starts to laugh.
“Emily, that is so flattering...” Gwen can hardly contain herself. I think the fact that I was hit on by a man means I may just be straight and attractive after all. Thank the lord (my mother’s thoughts). I finally got a design on my nails, but it’s a flower which I had not asked for. I guess that is who I am now, the girl with the flower on her fucking thumb. Oh well, I will just bite it off later.
6PM and we are out eating. We eat at a less than adequate restaurant according to mother, but it serves burgers and I love those. Mother orders the soup of the day and rye toast. There are some locals watching a football game at the bar.
Gwen keeps eyeing them and saying, “Now there is your type of man, Emily. They are masculine but passionate, really interesting don’t you think?” I look over to the bar and take in what I see. My perceptions of what these ape-like creatures are doing are quite different than Gwen’s.
“Mom, they are yelling at a television, rooting for people who make a million dollars trying to throw a ball. You can hardly call that a catch.”(No pun intended)
The men’s ears must have been fucking ringing because I shit you not, no more than two seconds later, an inebriated fool comes over and sits at our table right next to me in the empty seat. My mother looks very surprised and is not sure how to take it.
“Can we help you, fine sir?” I ask.
“You ladies just look so great and beautiful and awesome over here, I thought I would join you. Can I join you?”
I’m not sure if he’s kidding or serious, so I just sit and stare at him for a moment. Sometimes if I give the ‘death glare from hell’ look for long enough, the sorry bastards just leave, but this one wa
sn’t budging.
“What have you been drinking tonight sir?” (I thought I would have some fun with him)
“Water mostly.” He slurs.
“Just water, eh?”
“Well, a beer.”
“Just one beer?” I squint my eyes and lean into him trying to be sarcastic as shit.
My mother, all the while, is shocked to witness this sort of fiasco unraveling before her.
“Well, a few…ok ya, a few beers my buddies bought me…” He pauses long enough to look and point over at the bar while his eyes focus trying to make out just who exactly he is pointing at.
“They bought me a Jamison I think too…”
“Wow, that is great.” I sit back up in the chair and fold my hands together.
“Ya but they are so so so not as fine as you two womens over here, (pause/slur) so I left um, and now I am sitting with you if that’s ok…?”
This poor guy was probably 30 years old, single no doubt, and may or may not have been dropped on his head as an infant. I talk slow, and very clearly, so that he can understand every word:
“Actually, you see… I am having a nice dinner with my mother (pointing to Gwen) who is from out of town and we don’t like being bothered, so no, no you may not sit here and no, no you may not talk to us. (I whisper the next part) So sorry for the bad news…”
I smile and give a sympathetic (yet fake) look. I motion for him to head back to where he belongs. My mother’s eyes are wide. The man gets up from his seat and stands behind my mother. He grabs her shoulders and squeezes. I see her wince. “This here is a beauty all right.”