“That doesn’t sound like it would work. I’ve never done the whole one night stand thing.”
I bring the bottles into the kitchen and make my way back to the den, where I settle on the couch again.
“Call it a ‘greasy pancake fuck,’ then.”
“A what?”
“A ‘greasy pancake fuck.’ You’ve never heard of a ‘greasy pancake fuck’? Don’t tell me I have to explain what a ‘greasy pancake fuck’ is.”
“Would you stop saying ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”
“Sorry.”
I let the silence hang in the air.
“Ok,” she says, giving up. “What’s a ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”
“I’m glad you asked,” I say, with a smile she can probably hear. “Well you’re single now, and soon enough you’ll be dating again; seeing what the world has to offer beyond that ex of yours – who sounds like a real scumbag by the way. You’ll be meeting guys, living life, and having sex. Well, if you come over tonight, it’ll be the ‘greasy pancake.’”
“The ‘greasy pancake,’” she repeats, unconvinced.
“Right. The first pancake you make of a batch, the one that’s just there to soak up all the grease. You’re probably angry at your ex right now. Maybe depressed. Maybe lost. You could spend weeks getting over him. Flicking through the photographs, reliving the arguments in your head, throwing out the fluffy stuffed animal he bought you for your birthday that you thought was cute but was actually just a last-minute purchase at the gas station.”
She laughs. “It was a keychain, actually. And some wilted flowers.”
“Or, you can come over here, and just fuck all of that shit away. A big blow-out. Just let yourself loose, and cut yourself off from the past. Mentally, emotionally.”
“Physically,” she adds.
“Exactly.”
She pauses, and I hear her inhaling deeply as she considers my argument.
“You make it sound pretty easy.”
“Because it is.”
“I barely know you though. We’ve spoken for – what, twenty minutes?”
I glance at my phone and realize, to my shock, it’s been almost forty. “What’s the difference if it’s twenty days? The only thing that happens when you wait too long is you miss out. You’re frustrated, I’m bored – the stars are aligned right now. And I like you.”
“There you go with the astrology again.”
“Like you said – it’s fate.”
She sighs.
“If you feel uncomfortable at any moment,” I say, “you have my permission to kick me in the balls and run away. Just don’t steal any of my stuff, please.”
I wait for what feels like years until she answers again.
“Ok. But I don’t even know what you look like.”
“Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”
I give her directions to my house, and we break the call. I toss the phone onto the table and lie there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is still echoing in my mind, that colorful laugh, and the stuttering gasps. I’ve been called a superficial bastard many times in my life, but if those people could see how turned on I am right now by nothing but a disembodied voice and a snappy wit they’d retract their statements. Ok, maybe it’s still true, and maybe I’m still hoping she’ll be a knockout, but frankly, even if she isn’t, I’m ready to put in a prize-winning bedroom performance on her.
I get up and shake my limbs like a prize fighter getting ready for the fight of his life. My balls are aching from how fucking hard she got me, and it’s all I can do to save myself for when Miss Mysterious shows up.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, as I take out a bottle of nice wine and some glasses, “what if she doesn’t even show up?”
I stamp the thought all the way into the back of my mind – like I do most things these days – and jog on up to the second floor to change.
I get dressed and go back downstairs. I put a little music on in the den, something slow, but edgy – none of that sugary shit. I like a little dirt in my music. Then I proceed to walk around the room, checking my watch as I pace like I’m scared of getting stood up in my own home.
I stop as soon as I hear a sound, not sure if it’s real, and too involved in my own imagination to hear it properly. Was that a car door slamming? I hear footsteps on my porch.
And there goes the fucking doorbell.
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