Friday night.
It happens every week. That night when I escape my dull life, my routine, my everyday existence.
A glass of red wine, music that’s way too loud, and all my clothes spread out on the bed. I pick out a short dress. Too short, my dad would say. It’s simple; it’s black. Too black, my mom would say. I refill my glass. I take a nice hot shower and slather on some candy-scented lotion. “Too sweet,” my sister would say. I slip on my dress—tight-fitting, with a plunging neckline. “She’s not going to a funeral tonight,” the Pope would say!
I barely style my long blonde hair; I put on some eye makeup, but focus mostly on my lips. It’s 10 p.m. I have my debit card; I have my cell phone. I head to the bar.
A rum and Coke, music that’s way too loud, and lots of handsome guys. “Too handsome,” my best friend would tell me. I dance, I chat, and I drink. I dance a lot. I drink a lot. I let loose, I forget, I escape.
It’s 1:30 a.m. It’s late, I’m hungry, and I reek of alcohol. My eye makeup is running, and my long blonde hair is a mess. It’s time to call a cab, grab a bite to eat, and go to bed. I reach for my cell phone, set down my glass of rum, and bump into a cute guy in the process. I’m embarrassed. My cheeks are flushed. He smiles at me. I don’t know him—maybe I’ve run into him before, but my blood alcohol level has made me forget. His eyes speak to me, and mine answer them.
My heart is racing. Too fast, my doctor would say. I’m nervous, excited. We leave together without saying a word. Not a single word is spoken during the ride. I open the door to my apartment. I’m trembling a little. Too much, a seismograph would tell me. It takes me a long time to close it again. I check—he’s still there, in my home.
It’s 2 a.m. He kisses me. He tastes good. He kisses me even more. Too much, Sister Françoise would say. Shivers run through my whole body. I don’t know him. I don’t know his name. He’s handsome. I take off his clothes, gently. He takes off mine, slowly. We explore each other, getting to know one another with our fingertips.
His warm breath on my neck, my cold heart against his. Our bodies work well together. We pleasure each other until the wee hours of the morning. Too much, my neighbors would say.
It’s 7 a.m. He puts his T-shirt back on; I pick out a tank top. We don’t speak. We feel good; we’re calm. He’s gentle; he’s sexy. I drink a big glass of water; he kisses me on the forehead. His taxi is here; he opens the door, looks deep into my eyes, and leaves. Too soon, Cupid would tell me.
It’s Saturday. Yesterday, I drank rum and Cokes and had a one-night stand. My first, my last. Not enough, my body would tell me.