Up until that point, things had been going well. My online date was cuter than her pictures, and after three drinks she was practically pouring herself into my pants. I’d been worried I wouldn’t remember how to do this, but it turns out most people just want someone to listen to them. Six months in prison had dried up most of my words but at least it left me a good listener.
We barely made it back to my apartment before we were making out against the door like high schoolers racing curfew. I had one hand on the hot skin of her stomach and anticipation made everything feel perfect: the rough lace of her bra, the sloppy sounds our mouths made, even the fact that the apartment was a cool 89 degrees and still smelled like fried chicken from the place downstairs. We tripped down the hallway, half-pushing and half-pulling, grabbing at each other like the empty space between us hurt.
A loud snore ripped through the apartment, making her jerk away from me like she’d been tasered. “What was that?” she whispered, even though she would have needed a megaphone to wake Nicky up from a bottle of shiraz.
I turned towards the living room, already knowing what I’d find. Nicky was asleep on the couch, snoring loud enough to shake the wine bottle hugged to her side. She had both legs wide open on the coffee table, and between them was the tiniest pair of booty shorts I’d ever seen. She would have gotten more coverage from a rubber band. “That’s Nicky,” I said. “My roommate.”
My date had her arms crossed, and her eyes ping-ponged between me and Nicky’s crotch. “Really,” she said, but it wasn’t a question.