Author's Note: This is a mainstream rewrite of my story, Look Good Naked. For those of you who have drifted across from the deep end, thank you for the support, but you won't find anything new here.
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I emptied my glass, allowing the velvety smooth liquid to envelop my tongue. The rich aroma filled my nostrils, before that all too familiar burn comfortably gripped my throat. I sighed as I leaned forward to place the glass on the coffee table, the milky ice cubes tinkling in hopeful punctuation.
There was another half a glass or so in the bottle, I knew. And it called to me. Refilled, I pushed back into the couch, snorting a laugh at my lack of courage. Yet another missed opportunity.
This latest girl looked dreadful , not the least bit attractive by any conventional measure. But there was something about her that drove me absolutely wild.
She was manning the cash register at Subway when I went in to grab a quick lunch earlier that day. I'd left her fellow Sandwich Artist with an instruction to pile on all the salads, and moved along the counter to pay. She was tall and gangly in that ill-fitting purple uniform. Her eyes were self-consciously cast down, and untidy swathes of chestnut hair fell across her gaunt, horsey face. As I watched her avoid my gaze while she shuffled around in the register, I found myself captivated by her. I don't know what it was, but somehow, she got to me. For the first time since puberty, I was stricken with a spontaneous erection, right there in the queue of a sandwich shop.
I remembered her cold, clammy hand brushing mine when she handed me my change. Her touch was electric. And in that moment, I knew I had to have her. I held her hand lightly as she placed the coins in my palm, causing her to look up. I smiled at her, and she blushed and looked down again, unfamiliar with the attention.
I wanted to ask her out, or at least say something. But the words caught in the back of my throat, leaving my mouth hanging silently open. I kept hold of her hand, my cheeks burning and the sweat prickling on my forehead.
Her blue eyes locked on mine, confused. I persisted, as best I could with a growing audience of Subway Sandwich Art Lovers bottlenecking beside me, and the minimum-wage sauce squeezer on the other side of the counter equally perplexed.
But still blushing, and my heart pounding in my chest, no sound would come. Defeated, I released her hand and slunk out of there with my tail between my legs.
My eyes brimmed at the memory, as I let myself get carried away by self-pity and regret. I reached for the bottle, and drained the last of the Irish Cream into my glass.
"Fuck!" I gasped, wringing my eyes shut and throwing my head back. Thirty years old, and I still didn't have the balls to ask a woman out to dinner. I was such a loser.
Fiona fumbling loudly at the door ripped me from my ruminations. It sounded like she was laughing as she struggled to get her key in the lock. She obviously had one of her friends with her, or at least on the other end of her mobile phone.
I threw down the last of the Baileys and took the bottle to the recycling bin under the sink. A quick rinse of the glass before I slammed it in the dishwasher disposed of the last of the evidence. The last thing I needed was the passive aggressive judgement of my flatmate.
When Fiona finally burst through the door, it was clear that she was crying, rather than laughing. She was wailing in loud, hysterical sobs. She slammed the front door behind her and stormed off to her bedroom in noisy stiletto clicks across the timber floor.
"Oh shit, Fiona, are you all right?" I called after her, my mood instantly shifting to concern.
Her bedroom door slammed shut in reply, the sound of her crying on the other side barely muffled.
I knocked on her door, but got no response. "Fi, what's wrong?" I called through the door. Still receiving no answer.
Pressing down on the lever, I inched her door open just enough to poke my head through. She was lying face down on her bed, howling into her pillow. Her whole body shook with every sob.
Hey "Fiona?" I called gently to my flatmate. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"Go away!" she screamed into her pillow, then turned onto her side so that she was facing away from me.
Fiona tucked her knees up into the foetal position. The little black dress she'd gone out in pulled up as she did, exposing almost all of her long, shapely thighs. She hadn't even taken her shoes off, the long black stiletto heels threatening to puncture her pale blue bedspread. She was racked with violent sobs, whining desperately as she cried.
Fuelled by Dutch, or more accurately, Irish courage, I went in to comfort her. I sat on the bed, placing my hand gently on her bare shoulder. My touch had no effect, so I spooned up to her and wrapped my arms around her. With my face buried in Fiona's mane of dark brown hair, I was distracted by the coconut and honey scent of her shampoo.
I held her as she continued to cry, surprised by my own boldness. Apart from the handshake I had offered her when we first met last year, I had never touched her. But something about the hopeless despair of her sobs resonated with me.
It was several minutes before the sobs eventually subsided, giving way to long, deep breaths and the occasional sniffle. I touched my lips to the crown of her head after a moment, causing Fiona to slowly turn over. She wrapped herself around me, nuzzling into my chest. I stroked her long, thick hair, and again planted a soft kiss, this time on her forehead.
"Are you okay?" I whispered.
Fiona screwed up her face and began to cry again. She shook her head as she buried her face into my chest.
"Hey," I soothed, stroking her soft hair. "Shhh, it's okay..."
"It's not okay!" Her voice was strained and high-pitched into my chest. "I'm a freak!"
I was shocked by the statement, frozen and unable to find the words to respond. "I don't under..."
"I'm a freak, Will!" She lifted her head up to face me. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mascara was smeared in blurry panda smudges. "No one's ever going to want me!"
"Hey, slow down," I breathed. "Tell me what happened." I didn't understand where that statement had come from. She was beautiful. As flawed as my decision was, it was the reason I had chosen her above other more suitable applicants to live with me.
"Oh, I can't," she said, hiding her face in my chest again.
Of course not, I thought with a roll of my eyes. I wasn't cool enough for her. I was just the nice guy at home to keep her company in case she had nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
"It's just...I don't know how to talk to you about this."
"Fi, you can talk to me about anything. My eyes rolled involuntarily, seemingly controlled by the little voice of reason in my head I never listened to. I kept trying to win her over though.
"I know, Will." She paused, with a squeeze of my arm. Then she swallowed. "It's just...it's...about sex."
I swallowed myself.
I hunkered down with a deep sigh, then coaxed Fiona into talking to me about what had happened. It was part of the nice guy job description after all, mopping up after some alpha male fuckwitt.
She explained that she had gone home with a guy who had recently joined her group of friends. She had taken an instant liking to him, and he had finally made his move.
"He wouldn't turn off the lights, Will," she sobbed. "He said he wanted to look at me. I told him I wanted to turn them off, but he just wouldn't. I should have just left."
"Why didn't you?"
