Eleven

If you’ve never lost your job, you should try it. Very liberating. Jen couldn’t believe it. She said that after Dwayne and I left no one got anything done. All they did was talk about what happened. Pretty much everybody said it was one of the coolest things they ever saw. Even Frank, Dwayne’s only friend, said it was pretty awesome. The VP who shitcanned me called to apologize on behalf of the company. He said he was sorry he had to fire me, but policy was policy. I said it was no big deal. Then he thanked me. I didn’t need to ask why, but did anyway. He said, “between us” he was happy to have Dwayne gone. “Yeah,” I replied, “he was a pile of shit.” That was the first time I ever heard the VP laugh.

 

Of course now I have no fucking idea how I’m going to pay my bills. I suppose I could call the folks. But I think I’d rather deal with a shitload of credit card debt before I had to deal with their guilt. Besides, it’s not like they don’t have enough to worry about. The last thing they need is their deadbeat son calling and asking for money. Like it’d be much of a surprise though. I have a history of fucking up.

 

I’m thinking of all of this, but not really worrying about it, if that makes any sense. I should be worried. I mean, I know that if I don’t find a job I’ll be in a world of shit, but I don’t really care. No, it’s not defeated resignation or the wine running through my bloodstream. It’s not even that I hated the job that much. It was something completely different. Something so foreign to me that I had trouble recognizing it. Somehow, happiness had seeped in through the crack created by Jen. Of all fucking things, I thought.

 

We were watching a movie that night. I can’t remember what it was, only that we were at Jen’s apartment. She made dinner, Chicken Parmesan, which we ate at the coffee table in front of the TV. We’d been hanging out quite a bit lately. Getting to know each other despite the occasional akward misstep on my part. I wasn’t used to optimism. I didn’t know how to handle compliments or sincerity or encouragement.

 

She’d say things like, “I’ve never had someone make me laugh so hard,” or ”You’re way too smart to be working here,” or “I really enjoy your company.”

 

I’d lower my head and mumble thanks or reply with self-deprecation, telling myself I was being modest. But I knew it was insecurity.

Had I always been this way?

 

We were sitting on the couch, my head in her lap, her fingers lightly tracing the bruise that had taken over my face. Neither of us was watching the movie. She was staring at me and I had my eyes closed. Occasionally I’d open them and we’d smile at each other. I wanted to stare back, to allow myself to be comforted by her green eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead I feigned sleep.

 

We sat this way until I felt her soft lips touch my forehead.

 

“You make me happy,” she whispered.

 

I opened my eyes and sat up, facing her. But instead of replying with an equally sensitive and poingent comment, I leaned in and kissed her softly, but without hesitation. Her lips were warm and I could taste a subtle hint of cinnamon. For a second I was overcome with the self-conscious feeling that I had garlic breath, but her now open mouth told me it wasn’t something I should worry about. At that moment, everything delicate or tender was ripped away as we attacked each other like two people who haven’t gotten any for years. She pushed me on my back, and in the course of seconds both of us were pantless. She ripped off her shirt and eased herself onto me. And as I watched myself slide in and out of her, thanked God that I had drank nearly a bottle of wine.

 

Eventually we made it to her bedroom.

 

Later, we laid in her small twin bed, on our sides facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes like giddy has-been virgins. A thin blanket partly covered us and the requisite soft candlelight danced off the walls while barely audible music filled the air. The cliche of the moment subverted by the endorphins.

 

I leaned in and kissed her for the hundredth time that night.

 

The smiles never left our faces.

 

I woke up the next morning blissfully aware that I wasn’t in my own bed. To my surprise, Jen was still next to me.

 

“Morning,” she said, leaning in to kiss me, smiling and looking sexy as hell with her disheveld hair and fantastically huge breasts – which, I must mention, are more amazing in real life.

“Shit.” I shot up, confused. “You’re going to be late.”

“I called in sick,” she replied. “Wanna grab breakfast?”

“Yeah,” I said, simultaneously rolling her over and spreading her legs. “But first I got to do something.”

 

Then we got crepes.

 

*    *    *

 

If you were to ask me the last time I was this I happy I’d reply with a blank stare. Maybe the birthday when I got my first real bike. It definitely wasn’t the first time Liz and I had sex. Or as she insisted on calling it, making love. Which is complete bullshit because I didn’t make love to that chick once. Softly fucked, maybe.

 

Liz had to be the most restrained and boring woman I’ve ever had sex with. Seriously, it was like fucking a log. I’m pretty sure there are coma patients who are more passionate and responsive lovers than Liz was. At first I dug the whole good-girl, unspolied act she was playing. But then, when she didn’t loosen up, I realized it wasn’t an act. I’d just as soon jerk off than put in the effort to sleep with her. I shit you not, it was that bad.

 

The sex was best when we were drunk.

 

“What are you thinking about,” she’d ask as she struggled through reverse cowgirl.

 

I wanted to ask if she was having a fucking seziure. “How sweet your ass is,” I replied.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

No not really, was the truth, but then again, it wasn’t like I could tell her that. If I could, she’d have heard me say, “I’m thinking about fucking Jen or anyone but you.” If she wanted the truth she’d hear me say, “if I came in your mouth, would you shut up?”

 

Instead, I’d say, “yeah,” and stare at the ceiling and will myself to cum just so she’d get the fuck off of me. She had a way of making a guy question his sexual preferences and her pathetic attempts at lovemaking pissed me off so much that I’d fantazise about bending her over and fucking her so hard she’d think she was getting raped. I wanted to shove her face into the pillow and tell her what a horrible fuck she was, and that I was going to fuck her ass because her pussy didn’t deserve cock.

 

What kind of fucked up shit is that?

 

I never had those thoughts before I met Liz. Not once last night did I want to do any of that to Jen. Where there was once hostility and hatred, there was now elation and love, or something that felt just like it. With Jen there was unbridled passion. There was a connection. We were part of the other. And while neither of us said we were falling in love, it was only a matter of time.