over my pubic bone and very slowly lower my back onto the bed. My abs scream at that motion, but I can’t recline any faster. “Patience, Natalie. Patience,” I whisper, biting my lower lip. When I feel my back touch the sheet, I exhale in relief.
I hear a loud knock on the front door. Finally. “Come in!” I yell.
The door opens with a little creak, and there are steps on my hardwood floor. I lift my head and glance around one more time to see if everything—especially the cake—looks right. It does. Phew.
And then I hear old Mrs. Yeng, “Natalie, darling. Where are you? The mailman messed up again and put your letters in my mailbox.” Her elderly voice sounds like a squeaky herald of doom.
“Fuck!” I whisper. My first thought is to get up and grab my bathrobe from the bathroom. But I remember the cake. If I move, it will slide off and onto the bed. Or the floor. “Fuck,” I say again very quietly, and then I holler, “Mrs. Yeng, just set it on the hallway table. I’m… uhm… I’m in the shower!” The lie comes to me curiously fast. I seriously need to evaluate my dark side.
“What?” Mrs. Yeng is ninety-three, and her hearing is terrible. She lives two floors below me. I often lend her a hand and carry the groceries from her car. Yes, she still drives, and God helps anyone who happens to drive close to her. She’s a really sweet Chinese lady though, who usually minds her own business.
If she finds me here… like this … crap. What would I even say to her? Quick, think of something. Next, I hear another knock on the door, and I imagine—from all the people in the world—the idiot mailman entering my apartment. I squeal very quietly, trying to lift the cake without damaging it. But it’s already stuck to the inside of my thighs and to my crotch. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus. My only hope is that they won’t open my bedroom door.
I start to sweat, quite profusely. I reach—veeery slowly and carefully—to my side table drawer and pull a washcloth out. I dab my forehead, underarms, and stomach with the terrycloth fabric. It feels way too scratchy and make a mental note to start using fabric softener.
I hear a male’s voice. Oh, no! Who the fuck is that? The mailman? That’s just the most stupid thought ever. But it keeps swirling in my head and refuses to dissolve into nothingness. Wait. Colin! Yes, Colin! Oh, my freakin’ gosh, it’s him.
At first, I don’t know what they are saying. But a moment later I hear Mrs. Yeng’s quaking voice dangerously close to my bedroom door, “She’s in there. She was calling out, but my hearing is so bad, I couldn’t understand what she wanted. I think she’s hurt. We must help her.”
Geez, woman. Where the hell did you get such abrilliantidea? Go away. Now! I frantically look around again, hoping for a flash of genius energy to my brain.
“I will check. You stay here.” Colin’s voice had never sounded as wonderful.
“Yes, you check. She stays there,” I whisper severely to myself. I press the washcloth to my face and neck, wiping off the beads of sweat. “Good Lord, please don’t embarrass me like this. I will make a donation to the Estranged Nuns or something. Just don’t let Mrs. Yeng see me now.” I’ve never heard of Estranged Nuns of course. It’s my brain, making shit up without reason or logic.
“Young man, if Natalie is laying there hurt, maybe even half-dressed, you have no business in seeing her degraded. It would be most mortifying to an unmarried lady to be seen by a male at her indecent state.” Oh no, oh no, oh no! I’m about to die. Mrs. Yeng most likely believes I’m still a virgin. I have to make a quick decision—stay like this and suffer the consequences, or dump the cake and hide. Ah, screw it. I paid good money for the cake. And it’s from Garnelli’s for goodness sake. It would be sacrilege to let this Sicilian beauty go to waste.
“Let’s just ask her,” Colin
I hear a loud knock on the front door. Finally. “Come in!” I yell.
The door opens with a little creak, and there are steps on my hardwood floor. I lift my head and glance around one more time to see if everything—especially the cake—looks right. It does. Phew.
And then I hear old Mrs. Yeng, “Natalie, darling. Where are you? The mailman messed up again and put your letters in my mailbox.” Her elderly voice sounds like a squeaky herald of doom.
“Fuck!” I whisper. My first thought is to get up and grab my bathrobe from the bathroom. But I remember the cake. If I move, it will slide off and onto the bed. Or the floor. “Fuck,” I say again very quietly, and then I holler, “Mrs. Yeng, just set it on the hallway table. I’m… uhm… I’m in the shower!” The lie comes to me curiously fast. I seriously need to evaluate my dark side.
“What?” Mrs. Yeng is ninety-three, and her hearing is terrible. She lives two floors below me. I often lend her a hand and carry the groceries from her car. Yes, she still drives, and God helps anyone who happens to drive close to her. She’s a really sweet Chinese lady though, who usually minds her own business.
If she finds me here… like this … crap. What would I even say to her? Quick, think of something. Next, I hear another knock on the door, and I imagine—from all the people in the world—the idiot mailman entering my apartment. I squeal very quietly, trying to lift the cake without damaging it. But it’s already stuck to the inside of my thighs and to my crotch. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus. My only hope is that they won’t open my bedroom door.
I start to sweat, quite profusely. I reach—veeery slowly and carefully—to my side table drawer and pull a washcloth out. I dab my forehead, underarms, and stomach with the terrycloth fabric. It feels way too scratchy and make a mental note to start using fabric softener.
I hear a male’s voice. Oh, no! Who the fuck is that? The mailman? That’s just the most stupid thought ever. But it keeps swirling in my head and refuses to dissolve into nothingness. Wait. Colin! Yes, Colin! Oh, my freakin’ gosh, it’s him.
At first, I don’t know what they are saying. But a moment later I hear Mrs. Yeng’s quaking voice dangerously close to my bedroom door, “She’s in there. She was calling out, but my hearing is so bad, I couldn’t understand what she wanted. I think she’s hurt. We must help her.”
Geez, woman. Where the hell did you get such abrilliantidea? Go away. Now! I frantically look around again, hoping for a flash of genius energy to my brain.
“I will check. You stay here.” Colin’s voice had never sounded as wonderful.
“Yes, you check. She stays there,” I whisper severely to myself. I press the washcloth to my face and neck, wiping off the beads of sweat. “Good Lord, please don’t embarrass me like this. I will make a donation to the Estranged Nuns or something. Just don’t let Mrs. Yeng see me now.” I’ve never heard of Estranged Nuns of course. It’s my brain, making shit up without reason or logic.
“Young man, if Natalie is laying there hurt, maybe even half-dressed, you have no business in seeing her degraded. It would be most mortifying to an unmarried lady to be seen by a male at her indecent state.” Oh no, oh no, oh no! I’m about to die. Mrs. Yeng most likely believes I’m still a virgin. I have to make a quick decision—stay like this and suffer the consequences, or dump the cake and hide. Ah, screw it. I paid good money for the cake. And it’s from Garnelli’s for goodness sake. It would be sacrilege to let this Sicilian beauty go to waste.
“Let’s just ask her,” Colin
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