The List Pt 03 Fun With Office Supplies

Con

Irresponsible.

Not really. You know it's not true. The problem is: He wants you to be.

I'll be in SFO for 4 hours on Monday.

You work on Mondays. Every Monday. You do not drop everything because a man - and a very young man at that - sent you a one line text.

You're not his just for the asking.

If only he weren't the only one asking.

{Sigh.}

The itch he generates is an like incipient case of poison oak just before the rash appears. That week, you're distracted at work. You put the Durrell Chardonnay where the Durrell Pinot belongs. The customers who usually engage you are strangely irritating. And it doesn't help

that it's suddenly Spring Break - The Silicon Valley addition. Every other person who bellies up to the bar is Indian, from Google or Apple, and under forty. It makes you positively long for a bachelorette party, the ones where all the bridesmaids wear those annoying themed tee-shirts and the bride has to carry around an inflatable dick.

Instead - it's as if the universe is trying to tell you something.

IN BOLD CAPS.

And it's nothing you want to hear right now.

It's only on Sunday - just after you've held out a tissue to collect some tech bro's gum before he starts tasting the wine (never mind that he's got a cup coffee in his other hand) - that you decide to risk it. What earthly difference could a sick day or two make?

It's the principle of the thing that irks you.

Would he do it for you?

Does it matter?

The bigger question is:

Why does it matter?

"This tastes like wet silk."

Coffee cup's eye catches yours. You smile at him -

ah yes, wet silk.

OK Universe - have it your way.

Your coworkers go out for drinks but you're not planning to join them.

"CeCe, come on!" Audrey's tossing the bar rags into the hamper. "Girlfriend...Palooza, burgers...?" You heave a sigh. Maybe it would be good. Take your mind off of him. Or - alternately - you would have a hangover as an excuse for tomorrow, complete with witnesses.

And it is good. The talk's easy, about nothing in particular. These are your people. They've become your people since the divorce - as close to family as you've ever had in California. When Bruce cut your loose (

haha, you're a poet and you didn't even know it

), you could have taken the alimony and moved somewhere cheaper. (And do what, you think to yourself.) Instead,

you did what everybody up in Wine Country seems to do. You went to work for a winery. Now you sell the Falcon Crest fantasy to tourists in tube socks. Bruce would point out it's a far cry from your college ambitions - the ones you buried so deeply you suspect there's a woman in China who's now doing your dream job. All so that Bruce could enjoy his high-powered career...

Just like Boy Wonder,

says the little voice in your head.

No, that's not right. Bruce is a fucking lawyer who's talked out of both sides of his mouth so long his ears operate on separate frequencies. In his dreams, Bruce WISHES he were Boy Wonder. When he was 27, Bruce couldn't even fuck his own hand properly, let alone lead a company to world domination.

That thought causes you to snort hard enough you suck your drink up your nose. All of which causes you to sputter all over the table.

"Ugh, CeCe! Geez!" Harry starts fanning the hapless french fries. "Don't you know how to drink beer anymore?!"

"I'm so sorry," you're quick to offer. "I'll get another order." Half the group shakes their heads but you raise your hand for the waitress anyway.

Fries before guys

should be your motto tonight.

"Hello? Earth to CeCe," Audrey pulls her chair closer to you as the waitress puts down another round of beers. "Come in, please."

Audrey knows you. There's absolutely no reason not to be honest with her. You know she'd never judge you. And still you hesitate.

Pro

Cougar bragging rights

Con

Suddenly you're a cliche

Which is it

?

Unfortunately for you, Audrey is an incredibly astute judge of character. She knows instinctively something is up.

"What is it, CeCe?" she asks as she idly squeezes the lemon into her Corona. "All day today it was like you were someplace else."

You know she's right. You were. You were in Seattle. In Brussels. In Hong Kong. You were wherever he was. Not that you actually have the faintest idea where he is right now.

Nor you should care. You are most emphatically at Palooza. With friends. Getting happily marinated. Maybe Boy Wonder doesn't get drunk but you're older and you know better.

"I was. I'm sorry," you admit though it pains you because you know you more than likely dropped the ball.

More than likely, more than once...

Audrey looks at you quizzically. You can tell she's trying to formulate a question. It's not hard to read her mind. She thinks you're an idiot.

Audrey keeps looking at you, long enough to make it uncomfortable. and with that, she reaches across the table and touches your arm: "It's a guy, isn't?"

"No, no," you stammer. "It's not that."

Audrey actually takes your confused, drunken head in her hands. They're so warm and comforting you know instantly you won't be able to dissemble. She'll ask and you'll blurt everything out like the idiot you are. Correction: The idiot you were to go along with him in the first place.

"CeCe, girlfriend, you know you can't lie to me..."

Yes. We just established that.

"So...," you begin, slurring just a little. "I did something stupid."

"Finally!" Audrey lets out a sigh of relief. Really? Why?

"You're so fucking straight-laced —"

You interrupt her. Best friend or not, that's just wrong. So WRONG. Straight-laced? She's got to be kidding.

"Straight-laced? What are you talking about?" you sputter. Again. Thank god there aren't any french fries left.

"Ok, maybe 'straight-laced' is the wrong word," she admits. "But you always play everything so close to the vest." Audrey stops and take a sip of her beer. "We've been friend for 3 years and I don't know a single thing about your sex life."

You practically spit your beer again.

"Oh come on, Audrey, that's not true..."

"Yes, it is," she counters. "In three years, you've never mentioned a single date." You cringe. Is that true? The parade of men flashes across your mind's eye. Adolpho. (Yes, you dated a man named

Adolpho.

You let that sink in for a minute.) Italian. Restauranteur. Ass. Matt. Biopharmaceuticals? Long dick. Ass. Ray. Intellectual property lawyer. Fun. What happened to him? Next. Andy. OMG. (Quick inhale.) What. A. Cock. Cannabis lobbyist. Did you still have him on speed dial? Stephan. You smile. Engineer. Poly. Fallback.

Was that fair

? Joe. Wine consultant. That wasn't all about your job, was it? Ethan. Blush. The less said about him the better.

Why didn't you mention them? Maybe because they were never around long.

That's what you wanted, right?

Ever since Bruce, you've kept things aggressively casual. The ads. Tinder. You never looked under 'long term relationship.' 'Casual encounters' was your thing.

Why shouldn't it be?

You'd been married before, had the whole white dress extravaganza. Kids were no longer in the cards. Now, for the first time in your life (barring those 3 short years before Bruce and after college), you were independent. It felt good. More than that, it felt

necessary.

You wanted sex, you got it.

Put like that, it sounded almost mercenary. But it wasn't like that - you were genuinely fond of some of them, friends even. But you set the terms of engagement.

"Don't give me that." Audrey interrupts your reverie. She looks drunk, but quite probably quite a lot less drunk than you are.

"I met someone." You say it and immediately wish you hadn't. Oh well.

Here goes nothing.

Audrey laughs and lurches forward towards what remains of the chips and salsa. "I knew it!" She sounds triumphant.

If only...

You smile wryly. At least you hope that's how it looks. You're drunk it could look like anything for all you know. Are you drinking because everyone's drinking or because...?

"So — tell me!"

Tell me.

Isn't that what you were waiting for? Isn't that what's going to make him real? After all this.

"He's ah...". Wow. Way to go, girl. You are

one

grown ass woman!

Audrey keeps looking at you, one fry poised in front of her eager mouth. You can practically see the speech bubble...

"Yes...?" she asks.

Of course she does.

Say it, CeCe. Now is the time.

"Ummm...yeah. I met someone." There. That's it. Exhale.

"And?!?"

Fuck. As if you were done. {sigh}

"Ah well he's ...". You take a deep breath. You can say it. Hell, it's not shameful. COUGAR POWER.

"Ah... I met him last time I was down in Carmel."

"Yes. And...," Audrey displays an obscene amount of interest.

Fuck.

"

He's ..."

"What? He's what?" Audrey wants you to spit it out. Your mouth feels like you just inhaled a field of cotton. Like you had a band-aid slapped across it.

But she's going to rip it off. You know she is.

"He's 27."

Now it's Audrey turn to snort. But she doesn't. She manages the more elegant response - she slaps her beer down hard enough to make it spill.

"No kidding?"

You nod, almost shamefaced.

"27?" You nod again. If she asks a second time, you won't believe it yourself.

"Ok - so?"

She's not that drunk after all. Actually - Audrey looks pretty clear eyed all of a sudden.

You rub your face and squeeze the wilting lemon slice into your rapidly warming beer.

So?

It's just one syllable, barely a word. But it is exactly the right question.

"CeCe..?" Audrey bends to catch your eye. "Did something happen?"

Did

something happen?

The floating lemon slice is irritating you so pick up a fork and start pushing it down into the beer.

"Did something happen..." you repeat. "No, not really... nothing bad. Nothing like that."

Which is the god's honest truth. What did he do wrong -

really

? The parade of recent men marches in front of your tired brain one more time. What did they all have in common?

You try to distract yourself by tinkling the fork against the rim of the glass again.

There was an obvious answer. If you described them all to Audrey, she'd pinpoint it in a heartbeat.

They were all ambitious workaholics. How did Boy Wonder put it?

I work hard. I play hard.

Fair enough.

"So what's wrong with him?" Audrey again. "And will you stop fiddling with that damn fork?"

In vino veritas.

Thank god you've been drinking beer.

"There's nothing wrong with him -

really.

"

"So there's something wrong with him -

slightly?"

Audrey looks like she's waiting for something... "Is he bad in bed?"

"What? God. NO!"

"Well, that's relief," she answers, laughing. "What then?" The way she says it makes it clear there could be nothing worse.

You resume swizzling your beer.

"You're smiling...," Audrey says and you realize she's right. There's nothing about picturing him in bed that doesn't make you smile.

"So WHAT is it?" Pause. "Girlfriend, you're holding out on me."

"Not really," you reply shaking your head a bit as if that could clear him from you thoughts the way it does a drop of water stuck in your ear. "That's just it. There's nothing wrong - really."

There's that word again. "Or, better said, I don't know what's wrong."

That's more accurate.

"So what's bugging you?"

"What's bugging me?" You scoff a little bit. What do you really know about Audrey? She's what - maybe 30? 35 tops. There's a boyfriend, you vaguely remember hearing about though you've never met him. A cop. No, a fireman. Looking at her, you remember why you've never been a woman with lots of female friends.

"Ever hear of Antonym?" The look in Audrey's eyes says she's not sure. "Google it."

She whips out her phone and starts typing. A minute later she looks up at you, confused.

"What has Antonym got to do with this?"

"Give me your phone." It's the article you recently read in Wired so you know there's a photo of him. You scroll down to it and hand the phone back to her."

"No!"

"Yes," you answer, suddenly feeling weirdly weary.

"Jordan Ganesan?" You nod. Audrey is quiet for a moment.

Oh no please don't let her launch into some...

Instead, she says," Jordan Ganesan is my little brother's hero."

You raise your hand for another round.

"No, honestly," Audrey continues. "Alex is in engineering at Cal and he says everyone wants to work for him..."

The beers come. "Well... I don't

work

for him," you answer. Meanwhile, Audrey has been skimming the article.

"He sounds kind of arrogant."

If only you knew...

"Is that it? He's just being an asshole?" She stops and looks right at you. "CeCe, you're 50! You must know how to deal with this? Just tell him to go fuck himself."

"No, no - it's not —," how bizarre is it that, when other people criticize him, you instantly want to defend him?

As if only you can do that.

"No, he's actually always been completely upfront —"

"About what?" Audrey interjects.

"About what he wants. What he's up for."

"So what is it then?"

And we're back at square one.

"What does he want?"

"To be a recurring one-night-stand." Audrey laughs. It is laughable.

And then she asks the obvious: "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing - nothing -

really."

"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."

The obvious again.

Audrey continues. "What do

you

want?"

"Hmmmm... that's a good question. A

very

good question." You pause to consider. "Maybe I want to set the terms of engagement." The look on Audrey's face tells you she doesn't understand. Problem is - even you aren't entirely clear on what that means. "I feel like I'm at his beck and call."

"Ahhh - CeCe, so you're a booty call?"

Exactly. I'm a booty call.

"Is there something

wrong

with that?"

You consider and realize there is no good answer other than it

irritates

you.

Deep in your heart (

god - what a cliche!)

, you know you'll drop everything for him.

For that.

But you're not at all convinced the feeling is mutual. He can take you or leave you and - somehow - that smarts.

"Do you want a relationship with him?"

"Oh Audrey," you sigh. "God. No."

"Well, then...?"

At that very moment, once again, the universe chooses to intervene. From a jukebox somewhere a song begins to play, a song that encapsulates exactly what you're feeling right now. Cheap Tricks's...

I want you to want me

"Listen," you say to her. Her ears prick up.

"Don't we all?" she chuckles and pats your hand. It's an odd gesture from a woman younger than you are but it still comforts you somehow.

The rest of your group is beginning to pack up. You can see the bartender's starting to wipe down the bar. Palooza is emptying. Sunday's their early close. Nothing's been resolved, yet you feel better.

"So you caught some feelings." Audrey shrugs. "Find someone else. Take the edge off."

"Tried that," you laugh.

"Did it work?"

"Sort of," you answer as you grab your purse.

"Try again," Audrey suggests brightly. "There's always my first suggestion."

You stop before you get into the waiting car. "What was that again?"

"Tell him to go fuck himself."

Luckily, you were not so drunk that you didn't know you needed an Uber. Amazingly, the Uber showed up. (MAGIC!). You told him where to go and - a second miracle - he knows where that was! Hurray! Somehow you got home and you were not tempted to text Boy Wonder. Not at all. Not when you somehow got the key in the lock. Not when you threw your heavy bag on the chair. Not even when you took your clothes off.

Fuck you, Boy Wonder. Fuck you.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

You practice a bit in front of the bathroom mirror. The first couple of times it feels awkward, then better. Before you turn out the light, though, you add one more, more quietly but also more truthfully:

Fuck you for making me miss you.

When the alarm rings in the morning, you can hardly believe it. You're amazed to see you're actually in pajamas (

that's good)

. Sober. Sort of.

Or you will be. Once you've had some coffee. And a shower.

The hot water feels like an exorcism. Why are you such a melancholy drunk? Why did you get drunk in the first place? As you shampoo your hair, you can't help think of that South Pacific song: "

I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair..."

. If only that were all it took, you think, giving your wet mane a good shake.

On the way to the kitchen, you pick up your phone.

Hyatt International

Con

Monosyllabic. (Almost.)

Not even a time. You take a minute to stare at the screen.

You put it face-down on the counter as you make coffee. When did you stop being casual about him? What does it matter if he just breezes in and out of your life?

Can you read your fortune in a coffee cup - like some people do with tea leaves? The creamer looks like vortex.

Of course it would. He's a fucking tornado.

There's really nothing for it. Before you've even finished the coffee, you know you'll go. You'll call in sick. No one will be surprised after last night. You flip your phone over.

Wear red

So he's giving orders now, is he? You smile in spite of yourself as you rummage through your lingerie drawer.

Red, huh? I'll show you red.

Your fingers wrap around a bra you bought a while back - a red satin number that ties in the front, as the matching panties do in the back. It's a little awkward to wear; you'll have to dress like a bear to cover it up but, knowing him, he should have that shaggy sweater off in a heartbeat anyway. . It's tough to tie the bow over your own ass but, once tied there's a cute little heart shaped space under it, right at the base of your spine. Knotting the long straps together in front gives you - you may as well admit it - amazing cleavage. All in all, you look — porn-y. Pretty. But porn-y.

Hey, he asked.

It occurs to you that you haven't actually said you'd be there yet.

For a moment, you hesitate. But now you'd be all dressed up with no place to go.

He doesn't deserve it.

There are other numbers in your phone.

Goddamn it.

As you think it, the phone flashes.

CU at 2.

He can't even be bothered to spell it out.

Before you leave, you check yourself in the mirror. You look like a fairy tale - the shaggy, oversized, brown sweater is the wolf that swallowed little red riding hood.

Grandmother, why is your...

The drive to SFO takes two hours. Two hours you have to ponder. Your irritation with him is irrational. After all, he never promised you anything. Why this sudden craving for a relationship? You're not developing a sudden taste for monogamy in your old age, are you? The thought makes you shudder. You said yourself he's not relationship material - even if he were interested. Which he isn't.

Is that it? It comes to you half way in, right before the exit for the Bay Bridge.

Is that it

? You can't possibly be that juvenile. You're way past the age where you want someone purely because he doesn't want you .Not to mention, he's not playing hard to get. He IS hard to get.