TO:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
FROM:Grace Landing ([email protected])
RE:Be nice!
Okay, 7:30. Looking forward to it.
P.S.—I obviously didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it! Pervert!
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Be nice!
Excuse me, I am not the one who wrote a story where every other page is about erections. Who’s the real pervert here? Lol!
7:30 it is. Can’t wait.
C.
Wow. With five hours left until my chat with Colin, I have no clue what to do with myself for the rest of the afternoon. For someone who works from home, you would think that I’m always bored, but this is actually rarely the case. In fact, because of deadlines and awful attempts at first drafts, I usually keep myself quite busy. Even since Scott’s been gone. I mean, there’s definitely more of a lull than there used to be when he was around all the time, but still. I’m a great procrastinator but I’m also a workaholic in many ways.
The thing is, in those rare moments where Ican’twork—like if Lindsay is reviewing a draft, for example—I get stir crazy. I can’t sit still. Add to that the anxiety mounting in my body from my impending phone date, and I have two choices: 1) induce vomiting to evacuate the butterflies from my stomach, or 2) clean the house.
I choose the latter. First, I collect all the laundry strewn about my bedroom and take it downstairs to the laundry room. When I return to the apartment, Dorian Gray is hiding under the bed. He’s a smart kitty. He knows there’s a storm brewing.
Next, I tackle dishes. I’m not a slob, but I hate doing dishes. I even hate loading and unloading the dishwasher. As a result, dishes pile up in my sink rather frequently. I roll up my sleeves and tell Alexa to play some house cleaning music. She mistakes this forhousemusic, and suddenly my ears are assaulted by the electronic fire of dance beats that feel equivalent to an auditory strobe light. I correct Alexa, explicitly ask for songs by Ariana Grande, and let the warm water run over my forearms as I rinse and load the dishwasher with stacks of plates, bowls, and silverware while expending energy bopping around from side to side. (When intoxicated,Idance.Sober, I just bop.) I wash the pots and pans by hand, then I wipe down the counter.
While Ariana belts out songs about sexual positions (she’s super subtle), I’m interrupted by my phone ringing. I check the screen and dry my hands on a dishtowel. It’s a 212 number. Probably spam, but I answer just in case.
“Hello?”
“Grace?”
“Yeah?” It’s kind of hard to hear with Ariana in the background begging the listener to “fuck me till the daylight,” but I don’t immediately recognize the voice, so I’m still not convinced it’s not a telemarketer.
“It’s Colin.”
Oh, shit.“Alexa, stop!” I yell.
He laughs. “Having a party over there?”
“If laundry and dishes are your idea of a party, then yes. A hundred percent.” I check the time. 3:30. “What’s up? I thought you had a Zoom call?”
“I did. It just ended. I just, um,” he begins.
I wait, eyebrows raised.
“I think we should have dinner tonight,” he blurts out.
“You do?” I ask. “You mean, like, together?”
“Yes,” he says. “Together. I feel like it will be easier to work on your manuscript if we’re sitting at the same table.”
Easier for you, maybe. I, meanwhile, will probably not hear a word of what you say if you’re anywhere as good looking as I remember. Or if you use that soft voice. My God, I might just melt into a puddle on the ground.“Um, okay. Sure.” My heart is racing. I think I’m actually having a coronary. There is a sudden intense pressure in my rib cage.
“Say around seven? I can come pick you up.”
