“No, you’re not. You’re pissed.”
“Damn right, I’m pissed! Everything was fine until I told you I’ve never had sex. Then you got all weird. Like I’m a freak.”
“Drunk. You’re drunk. And now’s not the time to have this conversation.” He unfurls a blanket and drapes it over the couch. “Please. We can talk about it tomorrow, right? When you’re clear-headed.”
It’s amazing how sobering mortification is. If only it could be sold over-the-counter for its instant effects. “I’m sober now, unfortunately,” I insist.
I pat my pockets to make sure I have everything, that nothing has fallen out during our pillow fight. Then I head for the door. He blocks my way.
“Move!” I demand.
“I… I don’t want you to go,” he states quietly.
I think I know what he means, and it makes my heart race, but I’m too proud to stay, so I obtusely reply, “I’m fine. Really. I won’t hurt myself or anyone else; you won’t have that on your head.”
I side-step him. He lets me go.
But I don’t get far. Because when I get down to my car, I’m greeted by the sight of a bright orange traffic enforcement boot on its back driver’s-side tire.
11
I experience plenty of firsts when I wake up this morning.
Waking up in a man’s apartment.
Waking up to see a man openly staring at me.
Waking up in the presence of a man, period.
I sit up gingerly, evaluating just how bad my hangover is. Not as bad as I’d imagined it would be. My head only feels like it’s going to explode, not that it already has. And I’m less stiff than I would expect after sleeping on a couch all night. It’s a fairly nice couch, after all.
From his stance in the kitchen, Jude asks casually, “Would you like some coffee?”
I nod and wince at the pain it produces. “Oh… You wouldn’t happen to have some pain reliever, would you?”
He brings me a cup of coffee and drops two ibuprofen tablets in my upturned palm. I ignore my screaming liver and down them.
To my annoyance, he doesn’t look hung over at all. Just to be sure, though, I ask, “How drunk were you last night?”
He shrugs. “Not. Squiffy, at the most.”
I’d roll my eyes at his incomprehensible terminology, but it would hurt too much. Instead, I infer that he means “tipsy,” and say, “So you remember… everything?”
He half-smiles. “Uh, yeah. Do you need help remembering?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I answer, sliding my feet into my shoes. The shades are mercifully drawn shut in the room, but I can see the sun peeking around the edges. It’s going to hurt like hell to walk out there. I hope I have a pair of sunglasses in my car that I can snag before walking to the nearest bus station.
The gracious host has a never-been-opened toothbrush he lets me use. After I spit and rinse, I chance a glance at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Bad idea. “You look like ass,” I whisper to myself. Obviously, that won’t be going onto the list that goes to Dr. Marsh. Before I can overthink it as gross or inappropriate, I take Jude’s comb and run it through my flyaway hair. Now I have bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, an upset stomach, and a lot of regrets. But my hair looks sleek. And my breath is minty fresh.
As I emerge from the bathroom, I decide to confront what we’re both thinking about. “Sorry about the TMI last night. I was really drunk.”
“I know,” he replies. “No worries.”
I laugh mirthlessly so he knows I feel exactly the opposite. “I wish.”
“About that,” he begins.
“Please,” I beg. “No. Let’s not. Talk about it, that is.” Then I blush at how that sounds. “I mean, let’s just drop it. Period.”
He looks down into his coffee cup. “Right.”
“Thank you.”
I go to the door, unlock it, and open it. With my hand on the doorknob, I say, “And thanks for last night. Mostly it was fun.”
He comes around the counter and approaches me. I open the door wider, stepping through it so that I’m standing out in the hallway with easy access to the stairs.
“Right. Well, sorry about the parking ticket mix-up. I’ll take care of that first thing tomorrow, when the parking authority opens.”
He goes on to explain, now that I’m sober enough to understand (and care), that he and the neighborhood parking enforcement officer “have a bit of a feud running.” He claims she tickets him for the “most minor of infractions. This time, I suppose it was because you’d parked slightly over the line separating my space from the one beside it. She must have mistaken your car for mine.”
“Give me a break. Nobody gets booted for that.”
“I don’t think the boot was for that particular offense.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It may be that… Well, let’s just say I haven’t quite gotten around to paying all of those other tickets. In fact, I’ve been meaning to contest them, considering some are a blatant abuse of her power.” He attempts a justified chin-lift, but his sheepish expression gives away his guilt.
I sigh and roll my eyes at him, irritated that I’m caught between him and some meter maid on a power trip. Not to mention it’s getting extremely old dealing with the inconveniences that keep sprouting up related to the great misfortune of driving a vehicle virtually identical to his.
And the arrogance of him, not paying the tickets! He probably thought he’d charm his way out of them with his plummy accent. Cheeky bastard.
But I can’t summon the infuriation this situation would normally induce, because I’m too worried about the much bigger pachyderm practically prancing around the room.
As if reading my mind, he says, “Libby… I hope you won’t feel uncomfortable around me now. Because of what you told me.”
I laugh nervously. “Well, I think that’s unavoidable. Sorry.”
He looks deflated. “Oh. It’s only that… I hoped you wouldn’t think so little of me that you’d think I’d think differently about you
