He shows up about thirty minutes later, a bottle of Cuervo in one hand, and a plastic rose in the other. I open the door and see him standing there, and the sober part of my mind screams that this was a terrible mistake.
He smiles and holds out the plastic flower. “This was the only thing I could find on short notice,” he says.
I laugh and take the rose. “This is about the only kind I can take care of, anyways.”
We stand there for just a second, and I feel a little awkward, and he seems perfectly fine. He’s just looking at me, not in the lustful way like earlier, but not in a completely innocent way, either. “So are you coming out here or what?” He asks.
I sigh. “It’s too hot to be drinking tequila outside. You might as well come in.”
I changed from my pajamas into some sweats and a baggy t-shirt (and threw on a bra underneath), and although I didn’t put on any makeup, I made sure that I didn’t have that shiny-scrubbed bedtime look I get after I wash my makeup off, either. I made sure I looked nice, but made sure it didn’t look like I had tried to look nice.
I see him glance around as we walk through the little hallway that leads into the living room. He doesn’t seem too interested, but I’m willing to bet that he has noticed every person in every one of the photos hanging on my wall. I’m not real sure why I think that, and I doubt it’s all that important, anyhow. It’s just something that sticks in my mind, He just casually glanced, but I bet he soaked it all in.
It’s a thought that makes me feel a little nervous, but it takes me a second to realize why. Because if he’s noticing everyone in the hallway pictures, he’s noticing everything about you, too: how much weight you’ve gained, how you need to re-color your hair, your chipped fingernail polish. Not to mention every piece of junk mail on the table, every pair of panties on the floor that have become so familiar to me that I don’t even realize that they’re there anymore.
“Have a seat,” I tell him, signaling wide, letting him pick either the couch or the chair. Let’s just see what his intentions are. “I’ll get us a couple of shot glasses. You want limes?”
“You got ‘em?”
“I don’t shoot tequila without lime.”
“Then get limes, by all means.”
I grab a cutting board, a plastic bag of limes, a knife, and a bottle of that special salt that you’re supposed to use for drinks. Honestly, though, I usually forget that step with the salt.
I walk around the corner, back to the living room, and see that he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Bastard.
The thing is, it doesn’t even look like he thought about it—just sat down where he was, comfortable anywhere.
I drop down across from him and the limes spill out of the bag, rolling all over. He herds them back over as I spread out the goods.
He points at the cutting board. “You try to cut up limes on that thing, the juice is gonna leak out onto the carpet.”
“Hand me that,” I tell him, pointing to a blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch. He reaches up and grabs it, and the movement causes his shirt to pull up. I see his stomach muscles ripple as he moves, and I realize that this was a mistake, this whole inviting him over thing. There’s a constant mantra in the back of my mind, You will not sleep with him, you will not sleep with him, you will not sleep with him.
But I know I’m full of shit. If I wasn’t going to sleep with him, I wouldn’t have invited him over, and I for sure wouldn’t have done it with a couple shots of tequila in me. And I really wouldn’t have done it knowing that he would bring even more tequila with him.
And even after all that, if I still wasn’t planning on sleeping with him, seeing that washboard stomach made the contest null and void.
I decide to change my mantra, maybe to something about how I won’t pounce on him after the first shot, but when he turns back and smiles as he hands me the blanket, I decide to hell with the mantra. I’ll pounce him whenever I damn well feel like it.
Oddly, this gives me a bit of reprieve, and my raging lust calms a bit as I spread the blanket out in between us. I put the cutting board on top of it, and then arrange the knife, the limes, the shot glasses, and the container of salt.
“Acceptable?” I ask, sitting down.
“Absolutely perfect. A set-up like this, we’d be fools not to get down to some serious drinking.”
And so we get down to some serious drinking…