Numb
I feel numb. Maybe numb isn’t the right word. How about pissed? Hurt? Confused? Confused. That’s it. Confused and numb. And pissed. I’m a mess. But no one can tell. To the outside, I’m perky and happy and exuberant. I’m a successful, attractive woman with a budding career and great apartment. I’m upwardly mobile.
Heath doesn’t know what I know. Maybe he suspects something, with all the love and affection he’s showered me with. He’s oozing guilt and I’m taking advantage of it.
Guess who has a new Marc Jacobs handbag?
Guess who’s wearing new Juicy Couture sandals?
He might not leave that bitch, but I can assure you that I’ll get something out of this relationship.
Even if things weren’t okay, you’d never know. Not by looking at me anyway. After all, the key to success is mastery of one’s emotions.
Foundation covers the errant pimple or two.
Radiant smile hide seething bitterness.
Really, everything is fine. I swear. He promised he’d leave her.
But just in case…
“Hi there,” I say, smiling, looking sexy, dress cut in all the right places.
“You must be Liz,” the man says.
We shake hands.
“I’m Brent.”
I size him up. Not normally my type, average height, a little skinny, blond, but he’ll do.
“You look even better in person,” he says.
I smile demurely.
“I mean Jessy said you were good looking, but she didn’t say you were smokin’.”
What a cheesedick.
“Well thank you,” I reply, simultaneously projecting confidence and modesty.
“Have you ever eaten here before,” he asks.
“Nope,” I lie.
“They have the best shrimp tempura.”
“Ohh. I looove tempura,” I say with just the right amount of enthusiasm, despite knowing that the tempura here tastes like rubber, even if it is the most expensive in town.
I don’t even have a chance to look at the menu before the waiter comes over and Bret, or Brent, or whatever his name is opens his mouth and does the whole “I’m a man, I’ll order for us” thing.
“Yeah, we’ll start with an order of the shrimp tempura, and can you make it a little crispier this time?” He continues to bark our order to the waiter, but I tune him out. I’m daydreaming about putting my salad fork in his throat when I sense that both men are looking at me. When I don’t reply right away, I hear Brent say, “She’ll have the miso soup.”
He must be a finance guy.
Dinner comes and goes, but not nearly fast enough. He does the talking. I do the smiling and nodding. Because he apparently has a thing for “authenticity” I’m forced to drink warm Sake. By the time dessert shows up, I’m D-R-U-N-K. Thank God.
“So,” he says, snapping shut the bill, “let’s grab a drink.”
“I would,” I apologize, “but I’ve so got to get up early tomorrow.” He doesn’t need to know the truth.
“Come on, one drink,” he pleads.
“Maybe next time?” I smile.
“I guess,” he says, “if you just want to get to the sex I’m cool with that too.”
He thinks he’s being funny, but I know there’s truth there. I pause and make a face like I’m considering his offer. Then I lean forward, knowing exactly what my dress is revealing and whisper, “I kinda have my period, Brett,” purposely mispronouncing his name.
I smile as the color drains from his face and an uncomfortable smile appears. “I’ll get the car,” he replies.
If he only knew how close he came to getting laid. Seriously, if he would have said yes I would have let him fuck me. I’m a slut, get over it. Will never figured that out though. I could see the boredom on his face when we had sex. He could never get past my submission. So he got bored and angry. If he’d of only let it out. I could see he wanted to, but he was too nice. Too much of a fag. It’s not like I didn’t give him signals. I mean, does a good girl wear revealing skirts and no panties? Does an innocent let you fuck her doggystyle, over and over, in hopes that you’d finally get the hint and put it where you lacked the courage?
“Do it,” I wanted to scream.
But he never did. So I fucked so bad, sorry, made love so poorly that I drove him mad. I thought he’d break up with me. But he was too weak to do even that.
Who am I, you ask yourself.
If only Will asked me that.
“Where’ve you been?”
I ignore Heath and walk to the bathroom. He follows.
“Dinner,” I say, lifting up my skirt and sitting down to pee. Like all guys, he turns away.
“With who?”
“A friend.”
“Dressed like that?”
“A guy friend,” I clarify. My admision leaves him standing there wide-eyed and speechless. I brush past him and walk towards the bedroom.
“Like a date,” he says, following my down the hall.
“Pretty much,” I reply with a smile.
“Why would you go on a date?”
My intoxication is making getting undressed more difficult than it should be.
“And why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”
I have to turn around so he won’t see me smile. “Feels good,” I say as I bend over to unstrap my flats, legs slightly spread. But he doesn’t pick up on the invitation.
“Why’d you go on a date,” he asks again.
I just slide into bed and close my eyes.
“That’s it? No answer?”
Of course telling him the answer would be too easy. Telling him the answer would prevent him from learning. So instead, with nonchalance and disinterest, I say, “I talked to Kathy the other night.”
I hear him mumble “fuck” under his breath.
“She says you’ll be back in town Friday.”
What’s cool is that she wants me to help coordinate this huuuge gala event we’re having in a few months to celebrate our new Hopper exhibit. Personally, I’m not Hopper’s biggest fan - sorry, just never cared for his style - but it will be fun nonetheless. Anyway, I am in charge of facilitating and managing our vendor relationships. Do you have any idea how hard it is to coordinate a party in this city? Not only do I have to help manage the event management group, I have to help coordinate the invite design and mailing. And that’s on top of the three other projects she needs my help with. But, this is my dream job, so I can’t complain too much 
