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The Rest of the Story
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The Rest of the Story EPILOGUE to the previous post: I posted the previous blog entry not as a brag, but because I feel like something isn’t right in this situation and I’m really interested in getting back together with Katie (and not even for the sex!) So after Katie awoke to find me standing in her living room, I explained about meeting her the night before, and being one of David’s friends, and finally she was able to recall meeting me, where I worked, and even a reference to some nice things David had said about me, but she didn’t remember my name (not really a good sign I suppose). She went off and put on some shorts and a T-shirt, and we sat down on the couch for a talk. She was pensive. “Did we use a condom?” she asked. “Well, no… you said you were on the pill, and you were in an awful hurry at the time.” She smiled, more on one side of her face than the other, but the occupied look in her eyes belied her concern. “But I am sure it’s okay, I always use them,” I added, “except when I was 16 because I was stupid, and then during 10 years of marriage.” “You’re married?!” she asked, incredulously, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. Perhaps she was just glancing at the ceiling. “I’ve been divorced for two years,” I replied. “How old are you?” “Thirty Six,” I replied, and for some reason I started doing the math in my head, realizing we’re seven years apart, I’m 24% older than her, she was born when I was in second grade, and she was ten when I first had sex. By more than 5 years she is the youngest woman I’ve ever slept with. I begin to appreciate the gap between us. “How many women have you slept with?” she asked. I looked into her deep brown eyes. Her eyes were making my heart skip beats. I was thinking about the question and realized I was taking too long to answer. She did say, women, which threw me a little; people might have been a better word. “Maybe thirty?” As the words hung in the air I realized it was more of a question than a statement, so I ended with something more definitive. “Or thirty five; I’m not a player or anything, mostly serial monogamy, this is the first time I’ve actually done the hook-up thing.” I looked at her intently. Perhaps twenty seconds passed. “And you?” I asked. “Hmmn… I’ve had a lot more than that,” she replied, and she stood up, a bit dismissively. “I tell you what, do you want to go out for breakfast? I can take you to your car, it’s on my way home. We left it on Franklin Street.” “Oh, shit,” she blurted. It is cute that she has cursed twice in the last five minutes, it gives an edge to her personality. “Car, yes ---- breakfast, no.” she said definitively, inclining her head as though punctuating as she said ‘No’. I was crushed. I had already been working up this great fantasy of stretching it out to an entire weekend with her, of showers together, sunny picnics and The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music sort of thing. This whole thing is already sucking a lot more than going about things the proper way, where you get to know each other first, and sex comes later. Why the hell did I have to blow it with this wonderful woman who has me obviously way outclassed? She had me wait for her to dress in a nice tight pair of<b> spandex </font></b>pants, and she put her hair up. She looked very sporty and fetching, a tiny bit rough around the edges from a night out drinking. I drove her back to Chapel Hill and she asked me questions, idle small talk sort of questions, it was wonderful. Things like where I went to school, how old I was when I got married, and so on. Too soon we were turning off Franklin to the curbside where she would probably leave me forever, so I said what I had been trying to get the nerve up to say for the whole duration of the drive. “Katie, before you go, I just have to say that last night was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me,” I sort of blurted the whole line out. I may have jumbled all the words, I don’t know, I felt like there were rocks in my mouth. It was a crappy, Hallmark Moment sort of thing to say anyway. A kind of sappy look came across her face; or maybe it was a pained expression. “That’s really sweet,” she said, and opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.” I paused to contemplate exactly what she meant by this, and when I returned from my thoughts I realized that she was gone. .... So I’ve been obsessing about this experience all week, replaying it in my mind, and the breadth of my social upbringing leaves me with no idea how to proceed. I could call her, but then I have to admit I stole her number. I could leave flowers or just drop by her apartment unannounced, but that would be creepy stalking if I dared follow up or to do it more than once. I think I’m forgetting exactly what she looks like already, and it feels a bit like dying. I keep kicking myself and saying, “don’t be so melodramatic.” I have so much trouble believing that she doesn’t remember the night at all. How could you forget something like that?! I think she wasn’t being honest, though she seems like a really sincere person. Over the course of maybe three hours she had only three or four mixed drinks with multiple shots in them, so it doesn’t seem possible to me that it could have affected her memory; I’ve had more than that in my younger years and I’ve always remembered every single painful detail. So my theory is that she acted as though she ‘conveniently forgot’ about the evening, so that I would feel uncomfortable and the whole thing would be over for her. It could have been a regretful, uneventful time for her. But I have difficulty believing that. I decided to get more information. I would plumb the depths of David’s network, maybe someone would pass her the message I want to see her again. When I got home, I called David and apologized to his answering machine for ditching him. He never answers the phone anyway. Twenty minutes later he bangs on my door to get the whole scoop. He stands in the kitchen and eats some of the leftover bacon and sausage I had for breakfast. “Dude, don’t even apologize, that guy Steven drove me home. I saw you leave with Katie and I was all, ‘there goes my ride.’ Did you pound that shit or what?” I told him every single detail, and David is such a manly man that he was whooping and hollering and laughing hysterically at every turn in the story. “Awesome man, you got the real deal last night, I fucking can’t believe you scored that shit. We can’t tell anybody about this. She’s been dating Antoine for like three years. It’s the perfect score.” “I’m sorry, what? Antoine?” “Antoine is this French guy, he’s a resident at UNC, rich family, smoo-ooth guy, a total tool, he can talk a off a meat wagon. It’s serious. She’s going over to visit his family in France. It’s the perfect fuck, man, she’s not going to be sniffing around making you take her to dinner and movies and shit.” “But I want the dinner and movies and shit,” I complained. |
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