He finishes his food and leans back in his side of the booth with his beer, which he drains in two long, smooth gulps. I watch his Adam’s apple bob once, twice. Pushing my plate away, I put my chin in my hand. Then I signal to our server to bring us two more drinks.
A couple of hours later, at closing time, I’m feeling no pain. And Jude’s giggly and silly, at best; drunk at worst. We’ve discussed every superficial subject two people can touch on and have had several good-natured arguments about music, books, and movies.
As we walk back to his apartment and my car, he says, “I know you like to drive dangerously, but you’re not going to attempt driving home like this, are you?”
“I told my cat I’d be home tonight,” I say truthfully, making both of us laugh so hard we have to stop walking and support each other on the sidewalk.
When we can move again, he says, “Seriously, let me call you a cab.”
“I’ll be okay in a few minutes,” I insist, not quite sure that’s true. If worse comes to worst, I decide I can sleep it off in my car for a few hours. “I just need some water. Or coffee. Or something.” It’s hard to talk when your teeth are numb, I’ve discovered tonight.
“You’re slurring your words, Libby,” he points out.
“Remember when you called me ‘Lisa’? That made me so mad!”
We laugh about that for a while, too.
At my car, he says, “I really can’t let you drive home like this. I’d feel terrible if something happened to you.”
“I wouldn’t,” I blurt.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, smiling. “In any case, you’re a menace to other drivers when you’re sober; I can only imagine how you’d drive now.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he mimics. “Come upstairs for a minute. I’ll pump you full of fluids and send you on your way.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Saucy minx!”
I have no control over my mouth. And I don’t care. It’s not like I’ve never been drunk before (give me a little credit), but I’ve always been alone. No chance for embarrassment there, until it comes time to admit to someone that you often get drunk alone. Sandberg’s not spilling any of my dirty secrets. I’m probably going to be mortified—and sick—in the morning, but right now, it’s fun to let myself go for once.
While he unlocks his door, I lean against the wall, which doesn’t really feel like it’s completely upright. Just as I’m sliding backwards, toward the stairs, he grabs my arm. “Oi! You are sozzled. In you go!” He pulls me into the apartment.
Once I get my bearings, I observe aloud, “Whoa, it’s clean in here!”
“You expected a pigsty?”
“Like your car,” I say, in defense.
“Well, I guess I should admit that I did a little clearing up this afternoon. It’s not usually this clean. But I’m not a complete scruff. I manage to keep my manky pants and socks off the floor.” He helps me sit on the couch.
I grab a throw pillow that has the Union Jack on it. “Nice pillow.”
“A little bit of home.” He holds up the other one. It’s white with a narrow red cross on it. “Flag of England. St. George’s Cross.”
“Cool,” I breathe. On a whim, I hit him softly across the face with the Union Jack pillow.
He blinks for a second, then, without hesitation, hits me over the head with his pillow. Harder than I hit him, I think.
We go back and forth like that until we’re swinging away with abandon, hitting each other in the face, chest, shoulders, and back. At first, we’re laughing, but as the blows get harder, all we’re doing is grunting. I’ve never had a pillow fight with Fantasy Jude. I think he’s probably too refined for that. I can’t even imagine it. But this is a blast.
He stops first, so I get in an undefended strike before he grabs the pillow, wrenches it from my relatively weak grasp, and tosses it aside. His hair is mussed in a most sexy way. I’m sure mine just looks mussed. I tuck a strand behind my ear.
During the pillow fight, I’ve sobered up a fraction. Not much, but enough that I’m more aware of my surroundings. And how Jude’s looking at me. Or more accurately, how he’s looking at my mouth. He leans forward slightly, so slightly that I’m not really sure if it’s true or if my drunkenness is making my eyes play tricks on me.
“I’m a virgin,” I reveal oh-so-unsubtly. I don’t shout it, but I don’t say it quietly, either (my ears are still sort of ringing from the concert). In any case, there’s no mistaking what I’ve said.
He looks completely sober now. Then again, I still feel like I’m wearing goggles made of wavy block glass, so it’s hard for me to read his expression.
“That’s… Well… Bully for you,” he murmurs, standing up and putting as much distance between us as he can in the narrow living room.
I’d definitely be more self-conscious about my confession if my blood-alcohol level was anything below point-one-oh. But right now I’m treating it as if I’ve just told him, “I’ve never seen Psycho.”
Matter-of-factly, I continue, “I know, it’s kind of weird. I’m twenty-eight. But the situation has never presented itself.”
“That’s difficult to believe,” he says, turning his back on me. He tinkers with something on his fireplace mantle.
“You don’t believe me?” I ask.
Quickly he answers, “No, no. I believe you. That’s not what I meant.” Suddenly, he puts down the object he’s been fingering (a metal tourist trinket of the Sears Tower) and crosses to a closet. “Uh… I’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa.”
Stung, I stand up. And fall back on the couch. And stand up again. “Well, I wasn’t implying that you should know because you were about to… de-flower me.”
“You need to sleep it off,” he merely replies, not defending his intentions at all.
“Never mind.
