I went out with Mr. Orange the other night.
I told him I could go out for a drink that night or else I was booked for at least week. It’s true. He canceled plans and agreed to meet me at a bar on the Lower East Side at 6:45.
At 6:15 I turned around and asked The Artist if I should be late.
“What for? Are you normally late? I thought girls were late because they had to get ready. And you already have clothes on.”
“Point taken,” I laughed, “but the thing about Mr. Orange is he was always late. Disrespectfully late. That’s one thing about him I hated. I would leave work and get to Brooklyn just to wait outside as he worked on finishing a paper or something. If he knew he was going to be late, he should have made it a point to tell me. There’s nothing more obnoxious than waiting onside when I could have kept working in the office.”
“Twelve minutes, then. Be twelve minutes late,” The Artist suggested.
“But I hate being late.”
As I walked the journey from the magazine office to the subway, I received a text from Mr. Orange. He was running late. How late, I texted back. I got on the subway and shot angry looks at the babies crying during rush hour. Me too, babies. Me too.
When I emerged from the underground downtown, I had another text from him asking if I wanted to cancel. I wrote back I was already there and furiously stamped toward the bar. I ordered a beer and drank it. When I’m angry, I drink harder and faster. By the time he arrived, I was buzzed and forgiving.
Two drinks in and nothing to eat: I had forgotten his nose and his eyelashes. I had forgotten how much he talks, his obnoxious ability to interupt an answer to a question he had asked, or his stories about his roommate, The Dwarf, and The Dwarf’s stupid girlfriends.
“Why did things end?” he finally asked. “Why didn’t you call me back?”
Three drinks in and nothing to eat: “Because you didn’t respect me enough and you have a lot of growing up to do.”
This silenced Mr. Orange.
“You’re not immature. But you’re self-involved and you didn’t appreciate me enough. You were always late. You were late tonight. Fuck it. Do you know how many guys wouldn’t dare be late to meet me?”
He defended himself. I demured.
“We had a connection,” he explains, and I didn’t care. Everyone connects to me. I am fucking connectable.
Four drinks in and nothing to eat: We ended up at another bar, a dive, and he bought another round. His hand was on my thigh, his fingers traced up and down my leg. I admitted the sex was good. I admitted we had a good thing. I let him kiss me and rub the back of my neck. I wouldn’t let him take me home.
So; I’m not proud of that. I’m never proud of my actions after many drinks and nothing to eat. I’m back to ignoring most of Mr. Orange texts. And when I told The Artist the next day how late he was, his eyes widened and we laughed.