And it also might be true that living inside me is a woman who is very hard up, and very thirsty.
But, none of these things mean watching a movie with Peter tonight will lead to anything. Am I attracted to the guy? Absolutely. Would he be my choice if this was some other town and I was there for a weekend away? Indubitably.
But there are reasons why Peter is the wrong choice.
Exhibit A: He doesn't like my fiancé, and it's looking more and more like the feeling is mutual.
Exhibit B: He knows Penn, and that might be weird.
Exhibit C-Z: I haven't come up with them yet, but I know they exist.
So. There you have it. Our two-person The Princess Bride watch party is going to be very tame. I'll arrive armed with microwave popcorn, the butteriest kind, and copious amounts of candy. Peter said he'd grab drinks for us, but didn't askme what I wanted. I'm curious to see what he'll choose. As an afterthought, I stopped by the natural pet food store and grabbed peanut butter and pumpkin treats for Slim Jim.
In an effort to throw Peter's nosy neighbors off our scent, we waited until later in the evening to hold our watch party.
Peter waits for me in the doorway, taking the bags from me as soon as I'm close enough. "What are you wearing?" he asks, looking me up and down.
He closes the front door behind me, and I turn in a circle. "You don't like it?"
He scratches his head. "That feels like a trick question."
"It's not. It's just a regular question."
"I can't figure out what article of clothing it is."
"It's like a poncho, but it's called a wearable blanket." I turn in a circle one more time, holding my arms out.
Peter's head tilts sideways as he considers me. "You look like a flying squirrel," he concludes, leading the way into the kitchen.
Exactly. That was by design. I also came with my hair tied on top of my head in a messy bun, and a face free of makeup. I'm wearing my ugly bra, and the most boring pair of underwear on the face of the planet.
Tonight, I'm anti-sex.
Not that Peter is interested in me like that. To him, my relationship with my fiancé is very real. There's no reason to assume he'd take part in me cheating (in his mind) on Duke, even if he doesn't like him.
And the bonus of dressing down is that it's comfortable as hell. Why am I running around town in cute little sundresses and wedges? Wearable blankets are where it's at.
"Ok," I say as Peter places the bags on the counter. I lean over and skim my hand along Slim Jim, telling him, "I got something special for you, buddy."
Peter opens the fridge. "Trying to get back into his good graces after the teabagging comment?"
"Yes," I say, nodding my head. "I could tell it hurt his feelings."
Peter laughs, coming away from the fridge with a bottle of champagne. He holds it up for me to see. "Is this ok? This is the same brand you were drinking the night of your engagement party."
My eyes go big. "It's my favorite, but it's expensive."
"You're worth it," he says simply. A beautiful sentiment delivered without fanfare.
I want to grab him and hug him, but I hold back. The gesture disarms me, makes my heart mushy and my muscles malleable.Softened butter.
"I don't know if there are champagne flutes," he says, wearing a lopsided frown of apology.
"There are," I respond confidently, "in the back of the top shelf to the right of the sink. I remember putting them there when we helped Hugo set up the place."
Peter locates the glasses. While he's pouring my champagne, I pop popcorn in the microwave. He fishes a bottle of beer from the fridge, popping the top.
I lift my flute in the air, offering a cheers. "Here's to popping your Princess Bride cherry."
