earlier, and grew uncomfortable.
“Um, I can’t do it tonight, Heather. Sorry. Thanks for asking, though.” I did it again.
“Okay, well, maybe some other time,” she said, disappointment in her voice again.
I said goodbye, clicked the phone off, and dropped it on the floor, where it was laying as I sat now. Apparently, I sacked back out as soon as I dropped the phone. I hoped I hadn’t come off like too much of an asshole with Heather.
On a brighter note, the apartment was cleaner than it had ever been since I moved in eight months earlier. I looked out at the floor, which I had vacuumed meticulously, and felt a small burst of pride at my work. I could smell the faint residue of lemon Pledge furniture polish, and I knew that the bathroom would smell like Lysol. It was a nice feeling. The place looked decent, and I felt like I could quit worrying about Sara seeing it.
The place looks presentable, Adam-boy. Now, what about you?
I spent the next half hour looking through my clothes for something decent to wear. It had been a warm day out, and the evenings were warm lately, so I opted for a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a long sleeve T-shirt. I went into the (clean) bathroom and brushed my teeth, scraping away the funky morning breath, and checked my hair and my nose. Back in the living room, I grabbed a pair of leather sandals (Sean referred to them as my “Jesus sandals”) from the closet by the door and sat down.
Nothing to do now but wait for Sara.
I decided to put on some music, and thought of the message Sara left earlier. I went to the C’s on my CD rack, grabbed “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me” by the Cure and popped it in the player. I skipped to “Just Like Heaven” and went back to the couch.
What an awesome song , I thought. I contemplated the fact that some people had never heard this song, and probably never would. It seemed incredibly sad to me.
The song ended and I used the remote to skip back and listen to it again. Robert Smith had just sung, “ Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick… ” when there was a knock at the door. I felt my heart jump.
I opened the door, and there she was, smiling. She looked incredible in a pair of short denim shorts, a halter-top, and brown leather flip-flops. The gold bracelet was on her arm, hanging on her wrist, and she held a small brown purse. She cocked her head, listening to the music, when her face lit up and she jumped inside.
“Great song! So, you liked my message?”
“Of course I did…thanks for leaving it,” I answered. I didn’t tell her that I had listened to the message about ten times and still had it saved on my phone.
“Did you know you live in the ghetto?” she asked, setting her purse on the coffee table. “There’s about a dozen guys hanging out in the parking lot, drinking out of brown paper bags and whooping it up. They yelled something at me as I drove past, but I didn’t hear them over the stereo. It looked like a scene from a rap video.” She looked at me and laughed, and I just nodded. I felt awful inside, knowing that she had to run that gauntlet to get to my place, but she didn’t seem too upset by it.
“Yeah, yeah. Well, pizza boys don’t live in mansions,” I joked. She came to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“And especially not unemployed pizza boys,” she laughed, and I held her to me. “Did you make any headway in your job search today?”
That depends, Sara. Do you consider staring at the computer headway? I thought.
“Nah, there wasn’t a lot out there today,” I lied. “I’ll give it another whirl tomorrow.” I watched her face to see if she would give me the you’re-full-of-shit look, but she was busy looking around my apartment.
“Do I get the grand tour?”
“Sure,” I took her hand and led her around the shoebox I called home, which was anything but grand.
I was
“Um, I can’t do it tonight, Heather. Sorry. Thanks for asking, though.” I did it again.
“Okay, well, maybe some other time,” she said, disappointment in her voice again.
I said goodbye, clicked the phone off, and dropped it on the floor, where it was laying as I sat now. Apparently, I sacked back out as soon as I dropped the phone. I hoped I hadn’t come off like too much of an asshole with Heather.
On a brighter note, the apartment was cleaner than it had ever been since I moved in eight months earlier. I looked out at the floor, which I had vacuumed meticulously, and felt a small burst of pride at my work. I could smell the faint residue of lemon Pledge furniture polish, and I knew that the bathroom would smell like Lysol. It was a nice feeling. The place looked decent, and I felt like I could quit worrying about Sara seeing it.
The place looks presentable, Adam-boy. Now, what about you?
I spent the next half hour looking through my clothes for something decent to wear. It had been a warm day out, and the evenings were warm lately, so I opted for a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a long sleeve T-shirt. I went into the (clean) bathroom and brushed my teeth, scraping away the funky morning breath, and checked my hair and my nose. Back in the living room, I grabbed a pair of leather sandals (Sean referred to them as my “Jesus sandals”) from the closet by the door and sat down.
Nothing to do now but wait for Sara.
I decided to put on some music, and thought of the message Sara left earlier. I went to the C’s on my CD rack, grabbed “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me” by the Cure and popped it in the player. I skipped to “Just Like Heaven” and went back to the couch.
What an awesome song , I thought. I contemplated the fact that some people had never heard this song, and probably never would. It seemed incredibly sad to me.
The song ended and I used the remote to skip back and listen to it again. Robert Smith had just sung, “ Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick… ” when there was a knock at the door. I felt my heart jump.
I opened the door, and there she was, smiling. She looked incredible in a pair of short denim shorts, a halter-top, and brown leather flip-flops. The gold bracelet was on her arm, hanging on her wrist, and she held a small brown purse. She cocked her head, listening to the music, when her face lit up and she jumped inside.
“Great song! So, you liked my message?”
“Of course I did…thanks for leaving it,” I answered. I didn’t tell her that I had listened to the message about ten times and still had it saved on my phone.
“Did you know you live in the ghetto?” she asked, setting her purse on the coffee table. “There’s about a dozen guys hanging out in the parking lot, drinking out of brown paper bags and whooping it up. They yelled something at me as I drove past, but I didn’t hear them over the stereo. It looked like a scene from a rap video.” She looked at me and laughed, and I just nodded. I felt awful inside, knowing that she had to run that gauntlet to get to my place, but she didn’t seem too upset by it.
“Yeah, yeah. Well, pizza boys don’t live in mansions,” I joked. She came to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“And especially not unemployed pizza boys,” she laughed, and I held her to me. “Did you make any headway in your job search today?”
That depends, Sara. Do you consider staring at the computer headway? I thought.
“Nah, there wasn’t a lot out there today,” I lied. “I’ll give it another whirl tomorrow.” I watched her face to see if she would give me the you’re-full-of-shit look, but she was busy looking around my apartment.
“Do I get the grand tour?”
“Sure,” I took her hand and led her around the shoebox I called home, which was anything but grand.
I was
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