draped over the faucet in the tub.
It’s panties, all right. But it’s sure as hell not my panties.
“Those belong to a friend,” I say.
Jack just looks at me like he’s a cop and I’m a shirtless stoner trying to explain away the baggie of pot in my pocket.
“Really,” I say.
Yeah. Uh-huh.
I take a deep breath. “My friend Raphael spent the night here last night because his apartment was being fumigated, and he must have forgotten them.” Then, lest Jack get the wrong idea, I hastily add, “Raphael’s gay.”
As if that were necessary.
As if any remotely heterosexual man would be caught dead in a zebra-striped thong.
“You don’t say,” Jack replied dryly.
“So you can just move his, uh, panties and—”
“That’s okay. You can move them.”
“I can?”
He grins and steps aside with a sweeping gesture at the tub. “Be my guest.”
I stare at the panties.
Cue Jaws music.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Jack.
In the three-linoleum-tiles-long patch of floor that is my kitchenette, I grab a long-handled, two-pronged barbecue fork left behind by a previous tenant. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it since I moved in, since God only knows why anyone would need a barbecue fork in a Manhattan studio.
Returning to the bathroom, I find Jack still eyeing Raphael’s panties with repugnance. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see me armed with a fork. Nor does he offer to take the fork and be my hero.
Terrific.
I gingerly approach the tub, spear the panties with a deft stab of the fork and shudder.
“Now what?” Jack asks, amused.
I carry the panties to the kitchen garbage can, step on the pedal that raises the lid and deposit them into the trash.
“That’s what,” I say, removing my foot from the pedal and closing the lid with a clank.
“What if your friend comes looking for his, uh, panties?” Jack asks from the bathroom doorway, amused.
“Sadly, he probably won’t even miss them. I’m beginning to suspect he’s the kind of guy who leaves his panties all over town.”
Jack just laughs and heads for the shower as I return to the warm, rumpled bed and my naked Jack—but not fiancé Jack—fantasies.
You would think Christmas shopping with someone you barely know on the day after you slept with him would be extremely awkward.
You would think there would be nothing to talk about, and the crowds would get on your nerves and you’d both make excuses to cut the day short.
You would be so wrong.
Shopping with Jack is the most fun I’ve had since…
Well, ever .
I really wish I were exaggerating, but I’m not.
Shopping with Jack isn’t as intense as shopping with Raphael, and it isn’t as exhausting as shopping with Kate.
Shopping with Jack ranks right up there with shopping with Buckley; Jack makes me laugh just as hard as Buckley does. The reason this is better is because Jack and I hold hands, and we keep stopping to kiss.
We spend the whole afternoon browsing around the Village, buying stuff. At one point, when the rain briefly turns to flurries of snow, Jack sings “Winter Wonderland.”
He sings it horribly off-key but he doesn’t care, and neither do I.
I can’t help comparing Jack to Will, who, when he sang in public, always seemed to expect people to stop and listen and applaud.
Not Jack. He just sings because he wants to, and he doesn’t give a damn who hears or what they think. I even join in. When I was with Will, I never dared sing out loud, for fear he would criticize my vocal talent—or lack thereof.
But with Jack, I sing my heart out, and it feels great.
I only think of Will two other times all day: once whenJack and I pass the cabaret place where Will and I went on our first date after I moved to New York, and once when, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him walk by. I do a double take. It isn’t him. In fact, it’s a black man walking a dog.
Will isn’t black and he’s allergic to dogs.
I get five small gifts for
It’s panties, all right. But it’s sure as hell not my panties.
“Those belong to a friend,” I say.
Jack just looks at me like he’s a cop and I’m a shirtless stoner trying to explain away the baggie of pot in my pocket.
“Really,” I say.
Yeah. Uh-huh.
I take a deep breath. “My friend Raphael spent the night here last night because his apartment was being fumigated, and he must have forgotten them.” Then, lest Jack get the wrong idea, I hastily add, “Raphael’s gay.”
As if that were necessary.
As if any remotely heterosexual man would be caught dead in a zebra-striped thong.
“You don’t say,” Jack replied dryly.
“So you can just move his, uh, panties and—”
“That’s okay. You can move them.”
“I can?”
He grins and steps aside with a sweeping gesture at the tub. “Be my guest.”
I stare at the panties.
Cue Jaws music.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Jack.
In the three-linoleum-tiles-long patch of floor that is my kitchenette, I grab a long-handled, two-pronged barbecue fork left behind by a previous tenant. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it since I moved in, since God only knows why anyone would need a barbecue fork in a Manhattan studio.
Returning to the bathroom, I find Jack still eyeing Raphael’s panties with repugnance. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see me armed with a fork. Nor does he offer to take the fork and be my hero.
Terrific.
I gingerly approach the tub, spear the panties with a deft stab of the fork and shudder.
“Now what?” Jack asks, amused.
I carry the panties to the kitchen garbage can, step on the pedal that raises the lid and deposit them into the trash.
“That’s what,” I say, removing my foot from the pedal and closing the lid with a clank.
“What if your friend comes looking for his, uh, panties?” Jack asks from the bathroom doorway, amused.
“Sadly, he probably won’t even miss them. I’m beginning to suspect he’s the kind of guy who leaves his panties all over town.”
Jack just laughs and heads for the shower as I return to the warm, rumpled bed and my naked Jack—but not fiancé Jack—fantasies.
You would think Christmas shopping with someone you barely know on the day after you slept with him would be extremely awkward.
You would think there would be nothing to talk about, and the crowds would get on your nerves and you’d both make excuses to cut the day short.
You would be so wrong.
Shopping with Jack is the most fun I’ve had since…
Well, ever .
I really wish I were exaggerating, but I’m not.
Shopping with Jack isn’t as intense as shopping with Raphael, and it isn’t as exhausting as shopping with Kate.
Shopping with Jack ranks right up there with shopping with Buckley; Jack makes me laugh just as hard as Buckley does. The reason this is better is because Jack and I hold hands, and we keep stopping to kiss.
We spend the whole afternoon browsing around the Village, buying stuff. At one point, when the rain briefly turns to flurries of snow, Jack sings “Winter Wonderland.”
He sings it horribly off-key but he doesn’t care, and neither do I.
I can’t help comparing Jack to Will, who, when he sang in public, always seemed to expect people to stop and listen and applaud.
Not Jack. He just sings because he wants to, and he doesn’t give a damn who hears or what they think. I even join in. When I was with Will, I never dared sing out loud, for fear he would criticize my vocal talent—or lack thereof.
But with Jack, I sing my heart out, and it feels great.
I only think of Will two other times all day: once whenJack and I pass the cabaret place where Will and I went on our first date after I moved to New York, and once when, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him walk by. I do a double take. It isn’t him. In fact, it’s a black man walking a dog.
Will isn’t black and he’s allergic to dogs.
I get five small gifts for
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