Page 48 of Come Back to Bed
11
Matt
A week has gone by, and I’m not a guy who’s easily freaked out by anything, but I’ve been a little freaked out by how great the sex was with Bernadette.
I’d forgotten what it was like to have a sex partner, as opposed to being with a gorgeous woman who allowed me to pleasure her and worship at the temple of her body.
We haven’t really seen each other since we slept together. After Bernadette left my apartment, I went back down to the basement to get her laundry out of the dryer, then placed the basket of clothes in the hallway outside her door and texted her that I had. I mean, I didn’t fold it for her or anything—I’m not her maid. I just didn’t want her going down there by herself at like three in the morning.
I’ve been busy with work, but she doesn’t seem to have been home much either. A couple of days ago I saw her coming towards me down the block when I was walking Daisy, but I looked away because a dog started barking. When I looked up again, Bernadette had vanished. She was probably hiding in the corner store. I don’t know why she’d feel the need to hide from me. I can only assume that she was equally freaked out by the awesomeness.
She was right, though. I do have to be careful not to get my thoughts and feelings about Vanessa confused with whatever it is that I’ve got going on with her. Maybe I’m just getting caught up in the firsts again. Maybe the only way to know for sure is if we have sex a few more times. If we’re lucky, it will fall short of our expectations following the initial encounter, which will make it easier for both of us to find someone more appropriate.
I have never been so eager to have disappointing sex with someone that I’m really attracted to. She may have broken my brain. This is what I’m thinking when I’m heading down to the laundry room on a Friday night, instead of hanging out with my buddies at a bar in the West Village. One of my friends was intent on setting me up with an ex of his who’s in town for the week, but I just didn’t feel up to it.
If I don’t run into Bernadette, I’ll text her to see if she’s available later on, as per the arrangement. But I don’t run into Bernadette. I run into Mrs. Benson and her poodle. Mrs. Benson is probably in her sixties, and I’m guessing her poodle is around two hundred years old. I remember what Bernadette had said about Mrs. Benson’s dinner parties, so at first when she invites me to her dinner party tomorrow night, I politely decline. When she insists that I come to meet an interesting young lady that she thinks I would like, I reconsider.
When she says, “Oh wait—you must know Bernadette from the building! She’ll be there!” I say “Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Benson, I would love to come to your dinner party.”
“Hooray!” she squeals. “Now, I wish I could invite you to bring your dog, but Alessandro doesn’t like other animals.”
“Not to worry.” Although, now I’m very worried about entering the home of a woman who named her poodle Alessandro.
When she asks me to show up early to help her with a few things, I have to wonder if the interesting young lady she thinks I would like isher.
But if she tries to set me up with Bernadette Farmer, Bernie and I may never stop laughing.
* * *
I’ve been in Mrs. Benson’s apartment for ten minutes and I’m considering faking a migraine or accidentally falling out the window to get out of the dinner. After setting up the dining table extension, she had me bring out the fine china from the cabinets and set the table, constantly directing me and reminding me that fine china is fragile—meanwhile I could smell something burning on the stove. She’s wearing an old black Chanel dress and slippers and keeps going back to her bedroom to check on her poodle, who will be kept in there all night. Apparently, Alessandro not only dislikes other animals, he also doesn’t care much for people.
Now I’m in the kitchen, opening the three jars of pickles she has set out on the counter. She isn’t going to be serving them to us, she just wanted me to open them for her. I take the liberty of opening up the bottle of wine that I brought, to let it breathe. Thankfully, I hear music coming from the living room now. The silence was so awkward. Unfortunately, the music that Mrs. Benson has selected is Barry White. Don’t get me wrong—I love me some Barry White—but that is a seriously weird choice for an Upper West Side dinner party. My whole body tenses up, as I wonder for a second if the dinner party is all a ruse to get me to her apartment, and Mrs. Benson is going to walk back in here in a chiffon nightgown.
All of this awkwardness is made up for as soon as I turn around and see Bernadette walk into the kitchen, carrying a bunch of flowers. She is shocked to see me. She’s blushing so hard. I’m pretty sure she’d walk right back out again, except Mrs. Benson is right behind her, an impish grin on her face.
“Surprise, Bernadette! You’ve already met our new neighbor, haven’t you?”
“Um. Yeah. Hi.”
“Hello.” I put my hand on my chest. “Matt.”
“Yes, I remember. Nice to see you.” She widens her eyes at me.
“Oh Matt, can you get the vase down from the top shelf in that cabinet right behind you?”
“Certainly.”
The front door intercom buzzes, and Mrs. Benson leaves us alone together in the kitchen. Suddenly, it’s hilarious that “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” is playing in the other room. I hand Bernadette the vase. She takes it to the sink to fill it with water, and proceeds to focus all of her attention on arranging and fluffing up the flowers in their new home.
I clear my throat. “How’ve you been?”
“Excellent. Fine. Super busy. You?”
“Same.”
“Excellent.”
What follows is a pause that’s so long and quiet, I find myself wistfully remembering how fun it was when Mrs. Benson was telling me how to set her table.
