Staying In For The Night

by Sonia Weiser

“There’s a major party tonight as this club my coworker co-owns,” he said. I stopped stroking his chest and scowled at the few hairs dotting his otherwise Grecian god/Jude Law circa The Talented Mr. Ripley figure. The thought of having to shower and put on anything other than yoga pants made me cringe. Was he actually a party boy? How had he hidden that from me for so long?

“Oh no,” he continued. “I didn’t mean we should go.”

My heart rate slowed down. I began caressing his chest again.

“I was going to say that we should go to the bar they always go to. No one will be there. Just us. No small talk with strangers.”

“Oh,” I said, pleased at our matching misanthropy (his and hers hatred of people!), but still not thrilled with the prospect of leaving my apartment. “We could also just stay in,” I said. “Remember how much fun that is?” I sat up and straddled his naked body. Before he could move, I shifted my weight and pinned his wrists against the bed.

“I like when you take control,” he said. “Like when you reach across me to grab the remote while I’m watching a basketball game and you switch the TV input to Netflix so we can watch Bob’s Burgers. That’s super hot.”

“You think so?” I asked. I kissed him with as much passion as I could muster up on an empty stomach. (I had been having a skinny week and wanted to keep that going for as long as possible.) Lust and desire gave me cross-fit level strength without the gym membership prices, and my recent interest in the literature of Anais Nin and Dan Savage empowered me to explore the outer boundaries of my comfort zone.

I let go of his wrists so my hands could graze the length of his arms. His biceps quivered and clenched as I lightly trailed my fingers along his veins.

His veins would be perfect for heroin. Or if he needed an IV. Was it too soon to ask whether I were his emergency contact?

“I can tell you’ve been listening to some sex podcasts,” he whispered. I nodded and smiled, mentally praising “Sex Nerd Sandra” and pleased that he had noticed my subtle improvements instead of my mind wandering. Our lips briefly met before he thrust his full weight into spiraling me onto my back.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is much better than going out for the evening.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I said.

“Now that we’ve decided to stay in,” he said as he began kissing my (flat) stomach and playing with the fraying lace trim of my underwear, “what should we do?”

“Well I think I have a few ideas,” I said, giggling. I brought his face back up to meet mine and wrapped my legs tightly around his back.

“You were thinking splatter painting too?” he asked.

I grinned and turned my head to admire the wall of my bedroom that was now covered in a partially blank canvas. Sheets of yellow legal paper with scribbled pros and cons lists were taped to the floor to prevent paint from marring the recently refinished hardwood.

“I really like you,” I said. I paused and thought about it. “Actually. I love you.”

It was the first time I said it and I regretted it instantly. Not because it weren’t true, but because I couldn’t help but imagine how someone like him would let me down. It’s hard to hate someone who sends you a handwritten apology, done with quill and ink, and pressed closed with a wax seal. Possibly flowers. Maybe a subscription to Amazon Prime or the New York Times Crossword Puzzle to comfort me in my grief.

“I love you too,” he said. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to say that. And how nothing would make me happier than doing romantic stuff with you. Like going to the farmer’s market to buy asparagus and kale. And holding hands so people have to walk around us.”

“You like kale?”

He kissed my forehead then continued to plant little pecks down my nose and onto my chin.

“I love kale,” he murmured. “Especially microwaved. With ketchup.”

I sighed and nuzzled my head into his neck, picturing us walking hand and hand, each holding a tote bag filled to the brim with fresh, locally grown produce.

“And don’t worry,” he continued. “You’re my emergency contact. And your birthday is my Amazon Prime password.”

He swept my hair away from my face.

“Actually,” he said, “it’s our Amazon Prime password.”

Sonia Weiser is a writer and functioning adult living in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @weischoice or read more of her stuff here.