14
I sometimes enjoy myself alone under the covers.
“Thank goodness it's Friday night," I groan while plopping onto the contours of my couch. This week sucked monkey chunks, so I am getting into my oversized flannel pants, ripped up sweatshirt, and eating a tub of ice cream right here on the couch—the love of my life.
“That's gross and stop talking about our couch like you're in a relationship with it. Oh, and give me your phone."
“No," I tell her.
“Tinder is buzzing."
“Good for Tinder, but I'd rather use Timber tonight," I tell her.
“Could you stop calling your vibrator Timber? It's weird," Layla says.
“It's what I yell out when a guy gives me a good time, so why not?"
“You're a liar," she tells me. “You don't experience those pleasures, remember?"
“Yeah, but you never know when it will happen. Don't kill my dream."
“True, but I don't think you're ever getting laid again, so …"
“That's why I have Timber, so don't worry." She's giving me the smack down about being lazy, yet, I don't see her getting all dolled up to venture out into town tonight. “I take it you'll be seeking attention from Woody tonight?"
“Dude, my vibe does not have a name, and if it did, his name wouldn't be Woody. You better not have spread any rumors about my personal love device because you'd be making us both sound nuts."
“It pisses you off though, which makes it kind of fun." It's a rare occurrence when I poke at Layla since she seems to always hold the upper hand. “I think Woody and Timber could have a fun time if we introduced them."
“Sorry, chica, I don't swing that way."
“I wasn't insinuating us, you dirty bird. I was talking about a playdate for our little buddies."
“You are the reason I can't function in society. Do you realize this?" she asks, standing from her desk.
Before I can respond, a pillow launches toward my face as Layla makes her way into the kitchen.
“You can't function in society because you haven't left this apartment during daylight hours in like a month." I think our argument was over a minute ago, but I needed the last word on this one.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I can see from the couch it's Wesley calling. Not a text, but a call. “Wesley is calling me. That's weird," I shout into the kitchen.
“Don't answer it. He wants a booty-call."
“Hey," I answer the call, ignoring Layla.
“Are you free tonight, or do you have a date?" He's forward, but I can't blame him after my track record this week. It's not my normal occurrence to have multiple dates with different men all in one week, but that is all he knows of me.
I think back to my plan of getting comfortable and eating a tub of ice cream. “No, I don't have a date tonight, but your attorney might have something to say about this conversation, don’t you think—"
“Tell him to hold on," Layla yells through a whisper.
“Can you hang on one sec?"
“What?" I whisper back.
“A booty-call—that's all he wants. Tell Wesley that you'resick or something. He was a dick the other day, you shouldn'tlet him get away with that."
I forgot I live with a dating guru. I lift my hand away from the phone. “Sorry, my roommate had a question. Yeah," I cough a few times, knowing it sounds as fake as a fake cough can sound. “Besides, I’m feeling kind of shitty tonight, so no, I’m not free.”
