suddenly feel bad for ripping into her. But isn’t this what frat boys do?
“They’re so ugly!” she says.
Nicole’s embarrassment is adorable. She’s dated her share of specimens—the hipster apiarist who kept bees on the roof of his apartment building and brought Mason jars of mead to parties, the aspiring DJ who foisted his mixtape on everyone he met, the wannabe thug with the misspelled neck tattoo and the scary pit bull that shat in her purse—so if he’s a nice guy, this douchebag might actually be a step up. But she still deserves better. She’s not the classic beauty queen, but her thick-rimmed glasses, quirky fashion sense, and infectious laugh make her cute in a nerdy, Janeane Garofalo kind of way. Plus she’s petite and busty—she just needs to figure out how to show off her body. She was probably a dork in high school, which means she’s forever trying to date guys who were popular back then. And unfortunately, the traits that make a teenage boy popular usually make him an insufferable jerk once he reaches adulthood.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “The problem is that he’s got these abs, and he’s always lifting up his stupid, blingy Affliction T-shirts and showing them off. It’s like, how do you not just lick them?”
I think back to my night with Hunter, and I feel my face flushing.
“So it’s short term, then,” I say.
“Oh, definitely,” she says. “He’s fun for now, but a guy isn’t boyfriend material if you can’t be seen with him in public. Why can’t I just find a good guy with decent taste like you did?”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” I say. I’m not about to get into the loneliness and the sexual malaise that’s infected my marriage. Because if I think too much about it, I know the conclusion I’ll come to: that David really is a good guy, and I’m a dirty whore for fucking a photographer I met at a club.
“Hold the phone. What the hell is this?” she says. Nicole grabs my nearly empty Americano cup off of my desk and inspects it. “Whose phone number is this, you sly bitch?”
“No one’s,” I say.
“Bullshit,” she says. “I want deets on this.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” I say.
“Nothing?” she says. “I just spilled the beans about the douchebag whose abs I’m licking, and you won’t explain the origin of a number on your Starbucks sleeve? That’s crap, and you know it.”
“Honestly, it’s just some barista who made my Americano this morning,” I say. “He told me to text him.”
“Oh my God! Is it the one with the Channing Tatum jaw and the short little sleeves with the Popeye arms?”
I suppress a smile. “It is, actually.”
“You skanky slut! Tell me everything,” she says.
“It really is nothing,” I say. “He made my drink, he smiled at me a little, and then he told me to text him. It’s flattering, but that’s it. End of story.”
“Or the beginning of a story,” she says. “What happens now?”
I snatch the cup back from her. “What happens now is that I finish my coffee while preparing for our pitch meeting in ten minutes, and then this cup goes into the recycling bin.”
I’m hoping that telling her will help me convince myself.
“Fine,” she says. “You think David would flip if he found out?”
“I’m sure he gets plenty of phone numbers written on his cups in San Francisco,” I say. And as soon as the words leave my mouth, my palms get sweaty. What if he really is hooking up out there? What if he’s just as bad as me?
Nicole leaves my office to prep for our meeting, and I feel sad that I can’t share any of my troubles with her. If she can confess to dating a douche and then share a laugh about it, why can’t I tell her about the hot photographer I fucked? A piece of juicy gossip like that would really make her day.
I’m no closer to solving my text-flirtation troubles, but hearing Nicole’s saga makes me a little less excited about
“They’re so ugly!” she says.
Nicole’s embarrassment is adorable. She’s dated her share of specimens—the hipster apiarist who kept bees on the roof of his apartment building and brought Mason jars of mead to parties, the aspiring DJ who foisted his mixtape on everyone he met, the wannabe thug with the misspelled neck tattoo and the scary pit bull that shat in her purse—so if he’s a nice guy, this douchebag might actually be a step up. But she still deserves better. She’s not the classic beauty queen, but her thick-rimmed glasses, quirky fashion sense, and infectious laugh make her cute in a nerdy, Janeane Garofalo kind of way. Plus she’s petite and busty—she just needs to figure out how to show off her body. She was probably a dork in high school, which means she’s forever trying to date guys who were popular back then. And unfortunately, the traits that make a teenage boy popular usually make him an insufferable jerk once he reaches adulthood.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “The problem is that he’s got these abs, and he’s always lifting up his stupid, blingy Affliction T-shirts and showing them off. It’s like, how do you not just lick them?”
I think back to my night with Hunter, and I feel my face flushing.
“So it’s short term, then,” I say.
“Oh, definitely,” she says. “He’s fun for now, but a guy isn’t boyfriend material if you can’t be seen with him in public. Why can’t I just find a good guy with decent taste like you did?”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” I say. I’m not about to get into the loneliness and the sexual malaise that’s infected my marriage. Because if I think too much about it, I know the conclusion I’ll come to: that David really is a good guy, and I’m a dirty whore for fucking a photographer I met at a club.
“Hold the phone. What the hell is this?” she says. Nicole grabs my nearly empty Americano cup off of my desk and inspects it. “Whose phone number is this, you sly bitch?”
“No one’s,” I say.
“Bullshit,” she says. “I want deets on this.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” I say.
“Nothing?” she says. “I just spilled the beans about the douchebag whose abs I’m licking, and you won’t explain the origin of a number on your Starbucks sleeve? That’s crap, and you know it.”
“Honestly, it’s just some barista who made my Americano this morning,” I say. “He told me to text him.”
“Oh my God! Is it the one with the Channing Tatum jaw and the short little sleeves with the Popeye arms?”
I suppress a smile. “It is, actually.”
“You skanky slut! Tell me everything,” she says.
“It really is nothing,” I say. “He made my drink, he smiled at me a little, and then he told me to text him. It’s flattering, but that’s it. End of story.”
“Or the beginning of a story,” she says. “What happens now?”
I snatch the cup back from her. “What happens now is that I finish my coffee while preparing for our pitch meeting in ten minutes, and then this cup goes into the recycling bin.”
I’m hoping that telling her will help me convince myself.
“Fine,” she says. “You think David would flip if he found out?”
“I’m sure he gets plenty of phone numbers written on his cups in San Francisco,” I say. And as soon as the words leave my mouth, my palms get sweaty. What if he really is hooking up out there? What if he’s just as bad as me?
Nicole leaves my office to prep for our meeting, and I feel sad that I can’t share any of my troubles with her. If she can confess to dating a douche and then share a laugh about it, why can’t I tell her about the hot photographer I fucked? A piece of juicy gossip like that would really make her day.
I’m no closer to solving my text-flirtation troubles, but hearing Nicole’s saga makes me a little less excited about
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