Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
My hip is swatted, a towel cracking loudly against my jeans. A bird is flipped off to the side it came from before I even give the culprit a glance. “Fuck you, Clive.”
While I continue to stare at Virginia, he asks, “How long are you going to ogle her? Cuz it’s just past pathetic o’clock and heading toward creepy by my watch.”
Looking down at the stainless steel Omega that shines on my wrist, I reply, “I’ve got a good ten minutes before I reach cat five creepiness.”
“That’s disastrous.”
“And like you said, leaning toward pathetic.”
“I said it’s past pathetic.”
I turn my back to her though it’s against my better judgment to do so when that fucker in a Member’s Only jacket is hanging on her every word and staring at her tits.
And she’s braless. Fuck me. My hands tighten around the knife I’m supposed to be using to cut oranges, my knuckles whitening under the pressure.
Being patted on the back, Clive says, “Those feelings will get ya every time.”
“I’m not having feelings.” Though I’m feeling I might kill this jackass in the jacket fawning all over her. One touch and he’s going to lose a hand.
“Surrre you aren’t.” Clive reaches around and takes the knife from my hand. “I think it’s safer if I take this away.”
“For me or him?”
“Both.” He laughs, and then nods toward Virginia. “You’ve known her for like what? A week?”
“Something like that.”
“Wow. She must be really special for this insta-love you’ve got going on.”
Scoffing, my head jerks back. “I’m not in love and there’s no such thing as insta-love.” Is there? I see Clive checking her out. “Hey, eyes over here.”
He shakes his head. “See? I wasn’t even looking at her and you’ve got your boxers all up your ass.
” Coming closer, he leans on the counter next to me and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not saying you’re in love, but those two rules you live by when it comes to women .
. .” His hands make an explosion hand gesture. “Have been obliterated.”
“No way.” I’m the one shaking my head this time, denial clearly setting in. I look back at Virginia. Her drink is empty, her tits perfect, and Members Only jackass has moved in. I’m there before he can offer her another drink. “Can I get you a refill?”
She smiles when she sees me; nothing like the expression of boredom she was giving that chump. “Thanks, Hardy. Maybe one more, but only if you can drink with me.”
“I want to, but Eddie had to leave and I’m covering.”
Checking her phone, she debates. “Maybe I should head home too. I have a long ride back and an ear—”
“Early morning?”
She laughs. “Yes, something like that.”
When she gets off the stool, Members Only panics—a lot like I’m doing—and says, “Maybe we can hang out sometime? Or go for coffee?”
Her gaze hits mine. “Um . . .”
I step in. “Hey buddy, we’re kind of seeing each other, so if you don’t mind . . .”
Hands are up in surrender as he backs away. “Oh, man, sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s new.” I look back at her. “And going well.”
He slaps a twenty down on the bar. “This should cover my drinks. Good luck to the both of you.”
Virginia is laughing. “Thanks.” When she turns back to me, she says, “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your actions? Or just helping a girl out?”
“Maybe both. Definitely both.”
Resting her elbows on the bar, she leans closer, and says, “I feel the same about you. That’s how I know it’s time to go. I know you don’t want that line crossed and it’s too easy for me to fall for your cute—”
“Ass?”
“I was going to say charms, but ass works too. When’s our third lesson?”
“Saturday night?”
“Yes, it will almost be like having a date.”
Yeah . . . almost. I sigh. “Your place or mine?”
She swings her coat around her and slips her arms inside.
When she reaches for the zipper, Chopin’s “Funeral March” begins playing as sadness consumes me watching the girls disappear.
They were definitely a highlight of my night.
“How about mine? If you’re free all night we can have dinner out and then go back to mine for the lesson? ”
“Sounds good. I’ll text you with details.”
Happiness covers her face. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“So am I.” I walk around to walk her out.
“I need to pay out.”
“When you’re here, I buy.”
She nudges me in the side. “You know the way to a woman’s heart.”
Suddenly feeling like I don’t know women at all, I just nod while looking down at my feet.
“Yeah, I’m the expert.” Except when it comes to her.
We head for the door and I throw my arm out for a cab.
She has her hands in her pockets. When a cab pulls to the curb, I signal one minute.
Turning to Virginia, I lift her hood up, protecting her from the cold.
The tip of her nose is already pink, so I kiss it.
Any excuse really. “Be safe and text me when you get home. Okay?”
She nods. “I will.” Moving closer, she lifts up and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for earlier.”
“My pleasure.” Literally.
“Have a good week.”
“You too.”
She dashes to the taxi and gets in the back.
I do the universal sign for roll down the window to the driver like they actually hand crank down these days.
I hand him plenty of money to cover her fare and his tip.
“Take care of her and drive safely.” Looking back at her, I feel sadness for a different reason other than her boobs being hidden from view, but I don’t dare admit it.
Instead, I cover, something I’ve gotten too good at doing lately.
“When you’re not around me, wear a bra. It draws unsavory attention from men when you don’t. ”
She starts laughing. I know she sees right through me though she’s nice enough to play along. “Okay, Hardy. Good night.”
“Good night.” I back away and watch the cab leave. This is becoming a habit I don’t like. Her leaving.
Insta-love, whatever that is. It’s a bunch of phooey is what it is. Watching her cab drive away, I think next time I’ll ask her to stay.
***
By Thursday, I miss Virginia. We exchanged a few casual texts over the last few days—hi, hope your day is going well, sweet dreams, and that kind of thing.
But then one night she sends my favorite: Thinking about you.
Along with the text, she sends a photo of herself in a bubble bath.
I can’t see her face as the camera is facing the other direction.
Look, I’m not saying she sent it to get a rise out of me, but I rise to the occasion no problem and jack off twice to that photo in two days.
I’m not embarrassed to admit that I did the deed with her photo next to me.
I’m embarrassed that I did the deed with only her knee poking through the bubbles.
That’s it. One bare, wet, lustful, tempting and teasing kneecap.
Damn that’s a sexy photo. There might be something to this insta-love theory.
Though I’m leaning more toward a chemical imbalance.
Holding the bottle of pills up from five feet or so away, I ask the guy behind the register, “What do these do?”
“Hard dick. For hours.” I should be offended by his bluntness, but the curly haired hipster seems to know his stuff. “It’s a staff recommendation.”
The little placard hangs from the shelf that displays the bottle.
“Yeah, so I see.” I set it back in its place.
That’s not what I need. If I could bottle the painful erections I’ve been dealing with, I’d be a millionaire .
. . oh wait, I’m already a millionaire. Then I’d be a billionaire and market the hell out of those pills.
Every bottle would come with that pic of Virginia’s knee.
Works for me. I’m sure it can work for others.
This could bring groundbreaking advancements in men’s penile projections.
I don’t even try not to laugh. I’m funny as shit.
After an hour of asking about almost every bottle of pills in the health store, I’m also starting to think that I’m out of luck with the chemical imbalance theory.
“But Clive calls it insta-love. Is this really a thing?” I ask the hipster.
I’d settled into a philosophical conversation on existentialist versus internalized love.
He lost me on the self-love movement he was currently adhering to and inviting me to bear witness to the sanctity of it.
I was brought back around when he mentioned love at first sight.
His happened when he was three and “discovered” himself in the mirror.
In reference to me, he claimed I was suffering from a clear case of socially acceptable attraction to someone I had physically bonded with resulting in a chemical change in my mind’s matter.
He reaches behind him and places a small box of Godiva’s chocolates in front of me. “That will be nine eighty-seven.”
“Why are you selling me chocolates?”
“Have you not been listening at all?” he asks, exasperated.
“I’ve been listening.” Understanding is a whole other issue, but I’ve been listening.
“It’s just love, man. You’re overlooking the obvious. Just flat out, simple love.”
Simple? Uncomplicated . . . “So I need chocolate to cure me?”
“There is no cure. Trust me, my friend. You’re too far-gone. So you have to deal with the crisis at hand. Buy the chocolates and go see her. That’s the closest to a prescription as you’re going to get.”
Go see her. I slap a ten bill down and take the chocolates, then tuck them into my coat pocket. “Keep the change.”
“I was going to.” The hipster opens the paperback in front of him back up and adds, “Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.” I walk out into the late afternoon and text Virginia. What are you up to?
She replies quickly, making me smile. Just work, but off in forty, so YAY!
I start down the street, but type: Meet in the middle for drinks?
Her: Just tell me where and I’ll be there.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I grab a cab and head for the city.