ThirtyNine

I stumbled into him as I rounded the corner of the too-tall, too-narrow, and too-long stairway.

He instinctually grasped my waist as I recovered, looked into my eyes, smiled crookedly, and said, “And who are you?”

“I am here with the photographer,” I said, only half-lying (I was meeting her there). “So you are…here for the re-opening, as well, yes?”

He looked at me.

Licked his lips.

“Yes,” he said, smiling as if he was in on my own private joke of the evening.

His hand moved slowly down my back. Rested on my ass.

“You write often in fragments,” he said, sipping his gin and tonic from an improper martini glass and smiling at me, chidingly.

“I do it on purpose,” I recountered, wrapping my right arm around his waist, if only to balance myself. “To make the improper seem more…proper.”

He laughed in my face.

Pulled me closer toward him.

“Let’s take a tour of The New Place,” he suggested. “And then…leave?”

I smirked.

“Now who’s talking in fragments and not to mention clichés?” I laughed, wrapping my other arm around his neck.

He giggled.

“Touché,” he smiled, spilling his drink only slightly on the back of my Paul Smith Of London Shirt.

“Star!” I called, mistakenly, to a server from two years ago who was not, in fact, Star, “two more gin and tonics?”

She was gracious enough to accept my mistake.

“I realize that the flight of stairs may impair judgment,” she cudgeled. “My name is Summer. G and Ts? Call?”

“Tanqueray,” I said. “And I am so sorry.”

“No worries!” she chirped happily. “BRB!”

She left to allow Random Asian Boy and I to entertain ourselves.

We did so in a corner of the newly-remodeled space, carefully attending to all of the fabrics, flesh, and nefarious other areas of such dalliances.

“We’re done,” he announced.

“And we’ve been photographed for the website relaunch!” I applauded.

“So we can leave now,” he said, more seriously.

We trekked to his sensible Japanese sedan in a public parking lot in Downtown.

Held hands along the way.

Embraced in his front bucket seats.

Kissed.

We were in the cave-like apartment as was featured in my “Atherton Bartelby Dream.”

It began with me in your bedroom, on the floor, left leg stretched upward, draping over your two legs spread wide open lap. One dog on my chest. Laughing at something you had said.

I embraced the dog. Felt the leg that was draped over your open lap being lifted, by you, to your mouth. Felt your lips on my calf. Heard the sound of your lips meeting my flesh there. Reached up to encircle your nearest knee with my fingers. Squeezed. Laughed. Leaned upward to kiss your knee myself.

I awoke on the floor of my bedroom, seconds later, already crying hysterically into the knuckles of my fists.

And stayed there for several more interminable minutes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hand on Random Asian Boy’s chest, pushing him away.

“What?” he inquired, genuinely perplexed.

“Because,” I said, remembering my dream of the evening before, and like a line ripped straight from an episode of “Sex And The City,” “I just cried in your mouth.”

And I dashed out of his passenger door with no further explanation.

This afternoon Dr. H inquired of me if I still felt anger toward Bartholomew.

I reflected for only a few seconds before returning, “Yes. Actually. I do.”

“Because he still fucks up my Red Carpet Situations.”

“Did you want to hook up with the Random Asian Boy?” Dr. H asked.

I thought about the question for only another few seconds.

“No,” I replied, glancing at his glass chess set.

“I really did not.”

“But,” I hesitated.

“I kind of did.”

“Just so I could be over this.”

“Because it is only The Next One who is able to do so.”

Filed under: Writing , emotional landscapes, ghost town, from the couch, epic rage, red carpet situations