Page 2 of Come Back to Bed
Whatever!
Seriously though—what is he thinking? Who just stands around outside a grocery store looking that handsome, unless…I look around for a camera crew. Am I interrupting a photo shoot or a movie set? Nope. Unless it’s a hidden camera reality show about people reacting to cute dogs and annoyingly attractive strangers.
He is expressionless as he continues to watch me while talking on the phone. I kind of want to slap his face because it’s so obnoxiously good-looking. Inside, though, my vulva is dimming the lights and queuing up “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye. Calm down, vulva! It’s just some guy on the sidewalk, you’ll never see him or his sweet dog again.
I bend down to rub the dog’s head again, whisper “I love you” to her, then continue on my way back home.
I have about fifteen minutes before Matt McGovern, Esquire is supposed to show up, so I check my mailbox. I never expect to actually receive anything besides marketing crap, but there’s a squishy mailer stuffed in there, and I stare at it for a few seconds before casting my mind back to five nights ago when I had ordered a sexy dress in a pinot-induced online shopping frenzy. I sometimes have to attend gallery openings and parties with Sebastian (for work, not as a date), and I keep buying sexy dresses online while under the influence, with every intention of wearing them. Then I return them and show up to events in a black cardigan, really expensive jeans, hoop earrings and red lipstick, because that’s the level of sophistication that I’m comfortable with.
I run up the stairs to the fourth floor, taking two at a time…Okay, I do that for one floor and then walk up the rest of the way. I don’t want to be all sweaty when I’m trying on this dress. Also, I may be having a heart attack.
As soon as I’m inside my apartment I tear off my coat, top and bra, rip open the package and pull out the folded burgundy red dress. I remember thinking that it would go well with my dark auburn hair, but I don’t remember the plunging V neck or the stupid zipper in the back. Sighing, I remove my socks, shoes and jeans, already knowing that I’ll be returning this sleeveless number on my way to work tomorrow.
I have no idea how much time has passed since finally getting this dress on and staring at myself in the mirror. It took about a month to zip it up in back because it’s so tight and then I decided I should at least see what it looked like with the right shoes, and then it seemed necessary to find the right lipstick before taking it off and packing it up again and now my intercom is buzzing and I can just tell from the way the guy presses the buzzer quickly, two times, that he’s impatient. So, I don’t have time to change out of this dress. I grab my keys and tell the buzzy intercom guy that I’ll be right down to let him in.
I remove my heels while taking the stairs and then slip them back on before reaching the front door. Through the glass and decorative iron grate, I can see that the man is tall and probably not fifty-something. When I open the door, I stare up at someone who is as surprised and confused to see me standing here as I am to see him.
It’s laugh-out-loud handsome stone-faced suit guy. He is just as handsome and stone-faced as he was the first time I saw him. I still feel the need to laugh when he gives me a quick, expressionless once-over.
“You’reBernadette Farmer?”
“Yes. And you’re…” I feel like I should ask for some sort of identification, but he’s so freakishly handsome and serious, I don’t know why he’d bother standing here staring at me if he weren’t Dolly’s nephew. Unless, of course, he’s a serial killer who’s about to murder me. If so, this would be a great outfit to die in.
“Matt McGovern. Dolly Kemp is my aunt.”
He just stands there studying me, for what feels like a year. An actual year, starting with winter as his coal dark eyes search my face, his jaw frozen in place; a late spring thaw as his liquid gaze trickles down the front of me; sudden blazing hot summer as it returns back up over my curves; and see how the leaves now turn from red to gold to brown and then die off instantly when he meets my stare again. Unblinking. Like a cowboy in one of those old westerns my dad and I used to make fun of, but I secretly fantasized about banging Gary Cooper in the back of a saloon.
When I was a child, I was trained to see a person or object as a collection of lines shadows, shapes and contours, but when I look at this guy it’s like I’m blinded by my physical response to the overall effect of his…everything.
He’s an assault to my retinas.
Or maybe he’s just an asshole.
Either way, I want to slap him.
Also, I may have just had a very quick tiny orgasm.
Like an orgasm zap. Is that a thing?
Feeling the need to take control of this situation, I thrust my hand out to shake his, but he’s got a huge duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, a cross-body satchel, an overstuffed garment bag and guitar case in one hand, leash in the other.
“Hi,” he says. He makes no effort to shake my hand, which is fine. That’s when I finally look down and see the beautiful Boston Terrier, who is shifting around on her paws, wagging her whole body, licking her lips and snuffling and slobbering a little bit. She is so much happier to see me than Matt McGovern is. I don’t recall Dolly mentioning there would be a dog staying in her apartment, but the building is pet-friendly, and I have no complaints.
“And we meet again! Hello, sweet thing!” I sing to the dog, as I start to bend forward, then think better of it as I realize I’m already showing about seventy percent more cleavage than I’m generally comfortable with. “Uh. Come on in. I have the keys for you.” I step aside, holding the door open for them.
His eyes stay locked on my exposed cleavage for about one full second, before they return to my face, which is probably very pink and feels like it’s contorted and having a mild spasm on one side.
“You’re Dolly’s neighbor?”
“And tenant, yes.”
He nods his head once, adjusts the handles of the duffel bag on his shoulder, then leads his dog across the threshold. “I thought you’d be a lot older. Like, seventy.”
“I get that a lot. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He stops, once inside, to survey the foyer. My new canine friend assesses the smells.
“Are you just visiting New York, or new in town?”
