I use my knuckles to answer, fumbling to not leave a florescent orange trail all over my bedspread.
Me: Im in the midle of sphitzing the coch with lighter fuid as be speck.
Oopsy. Leave it to spellcheck to fail me the one time I need it.
Fancy: Are you drunk?
Me: Cheez puf hands.
Me: Cal me.
As soon as the phone rings, I get a strange sensation in my belly that feels like some distant relation to excitement…best not to examine that too closely.
“What are you wearing?” His voice is low and husky and full of mischief. If that doesn’t deserve an eye roll, I don’t know what does. This is what you call male humor. It requires a penis to find this funny.
“What if I said I’m wearing the Hello Kitty underwear I picked up at Target on sale.” Phone cradled between my shoulder and ear, I finish washing my hands in the bathroom.
“I’d say that’s surprisingly hot.”
So predictable. “What if I said a strap-on?”
“I’d say let’s change the subject.”
Sooo predictable. “How’s the lobster claw faring?”
“Having to watch my assistant cut my meat isn’t exactly on my list of favorite things.”
“I bet.”
“You were right. I couldn’t have done this without Andi,” the man on the other end of the line mumbles.
“No shame in your game, counselor. I was going to suggest getting a temporary handicap sign next.” I’m expecting a chuckle. At the very least, a snort. Instead I get a good three minutes of silence. I don’t do well with silence. I immediately feel the need to fill it.
“What are you still doing up? Didn’t you get your usual, obnoxious five am start?”
“Yeah, I did…I couldn’t sleep.” I hear a long suffering sigh and my ears perk up. The silence grows tense. I’m about to break the stalemate, but he beats me to it. “I’m not a slut.”
Oh boy. I was hoping and praying we were going to gloss over that part of our little tiff…guess not.
“Soooo, we’re not going to pretend I never said that? Because I thought we were.”
“I’m not a slut.”
Sigh. What does he call it? Being generous with his dick?
“I’m not.”
I want to say agree to disagree, I really do, but I can’t do it. Something in his voice tells me he’s dead serious about this, and by the mere fact that he’s bringing it up almost two weeks later says he’s obviously been thinking about it.
“Why does it matter what I think?”
“I’m not a slut,” he repeats more forcefully.
“Okay, well, then I guess you date a lot? Is that closer to the truth?”
“No. I haven’t dated anyone in a while.”
“Fancy––every time I turn around there’s a woman stalking you.”
“That doesn’t mean shit. Do you believe me when I tell you I’m not a slut.”
The silence crackles with tension, anticipation screaming through the phone. Thing is, I do believe him. Ethan is many things, but not a liar. Not to mention there’s absolutely no reason for him to lie to me. I’m nobody he needs to impress.
“I believe you,” I grumble. Even though a nagging voice in the back of my mind tells me it’s easier to believe he’s a slut, easier to curb this budding friendship between us which feels dangerous.
“Good. I’m going to sleep. Call you tomorrow.”
With that, the line drops. For the next few minutes, I stare at the screen of my cell phone wondering what the heck just happened. Then again it’s becoming a trend where he’s concerned.
I started receiving texts. Lots of them. At the most random times. And most of them look like this:
Fancy: What are you wearing?
Me: A frown.
Fancy: A wise woman once said turn that frown upside down.
Me: A wise woman is now saying stop texting while she’s trying to vacuum.
Fancy: Why are you vacuuming when the cleaning service is coming in two days?
Me: The house is covered in dust. I’m not waiting.
Fancy: How did court go?
Me: David got the postponement. Still don’t know why. I’d like this to be over as soon as possible.
Fancy: David knows what he’s doing.
I didn’t doubt that for a minute, but I won’t deny that I’m antsy for this to be resolved as quickly as possible.
Fancy: Flight boarding. Txt ltr.
Later that day…
Fancy: What are you wearing?
Me: Dust. Lots of it, Miss Havisham.
Fancy: ????
Me: Never mind. Getting in the shower. Ltr.
The phrase ‘fell into a friendship’ comes to mind. Whether it was by proximity or circumstance doesn’t matter, it happened seamlessly. I’ve never had this level of comfort with anyone, not this quickly, not even with Justin. As much as I love Justin, he is five years younger, which once in a while becomes glaringly apparent––i.e. there are only so many times I can spend the day playing Madden and drinking beers.
By the end of Ethan’s ten day trip I’m feeling a lot better about the state of our unorthodox friendship, the sizzle between us turned down to a respectable level. Whatever that means.