My night did not go according to plan, which is to say we never should have gone to that wine bar. Hours later I stood in his bathroom, wiping the mascara from where it had slid down my cheeks and telling him to fuck off while he knocked at the door. Four glasses of wine was three too many to find the humor in his fat joke that pushed me to tears. Crying in a man’s bathroom on a Thursday night–really Julene? Is this really where you want to be at after a year of mostly-successful attempts to avoid boys?
Once I delivered a teary mini-speech about all the reasons he was an asshole, the dynamic changed and he had me laughing again. The tears, which I always thought would deter sexual attention, seemed to have the opposite effect. We slept in the same bed but skipped the sex. (What, you thought he was going to change his mind about me being fat? Yeah right.)
I woke up in the morning with a slight headache and lingering memories of the night before–a speedy escape was necessary. Not so much for the sake of my self-worth or respect, but because I didn’t feel like having any kind of uncomfortable verbal exchange in my underwear. I pulled the dress from last night over my head, gathering up my socks and cell phone charger from their landing spots on the floor of his apartment. Doc Martens on and laced, coat in hand, I tried turned the knob several times before realizing I was quite possibly stuck.
Despite my turning and pulling, the door was not opening. I felt my eyes go wide like dinner plates–a pointless expressive display, really, since nobody was witnessing this melodramatic moment in not-a-hookup history. It was the momentary panic you’ve already seen a hundred times in cheesy romcoms–fighting the doorknob, trying and re-trying every broken locking mechanism on an old East Village apartment door.
“Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit!” I whisper-cussed, as if that would do me any good. The knob continued to turn, the locks moved but the latch refused to catch. I became more frantic, a semi-shamed little bird beating herself against a closed window, until a good turn-shove-pull from my wrist cracked the door enough for me to step out into the hallway. I carefully shut the door behind me, avoiding the loud slam that would have rendered my 20 minutes of silent panic pointless. Once on the street I marveled at how quickly the chilly morning air alleviated what I thought were the beginnings of a hangover. Maybe it was just the glee of a successful getaway pumping through my veins. Several hours later my phone chimed, alerting me that someone was awake and looking to discuss the events of the night before.
After realizing just how desperate the better portion of Manhattan is for brunch on a Saturday and being unwilling to wait 25 minutes to be seated (his impatience, not mine) we wind up at some cafe around the corner from his apartment. We made small talk past the arrival of our coffee, until midway through our brunch.
“Listen – I like you it just… it can’t be like this. I promised myself I wouldn’t come to America and get involved with girls.”
The Russian girl seated at the table next to us is obviously listening. She looked at me expectantly as he and I “had it out”, her face giving away that she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t more upset at the fact that this guy was telling me–quite bluntly–that we needed to be “just friends”.
Despite being awkward, the conversation wasn’t so bad. It’s not the first time that people got drunk and made questionable passes at their friends–with any luck, it’ll be the last. We agreed to avoid drinking and sleepovers, to still hang out and (non-verbally, and quite possibly only in my own head) that he would continue to pay for my food when he suggests we go out. I’m still not eager to test the limits of this thing, whatever it is. My ego is still bruised after his honest assessment of my body and my ability to shrug it off may have more to do with my own vision of self than his thoughts on it.