“No, like…rudehot. The kind of hot that ruins lives. You have CIA bone structure. That’s not fair.”
I wave a hand at him vaguely. “I bet you know how to disarm a bomb. Or build one. You’ve got that look. I’ve never seen cheekbones like that outside of a limited series on HBO.”
He’s still quiet. Which means I keep going. Because clearly, that’s the responsible choice.
“I work at a bank,” I announce suddenly, like this is a TED Talk. “Not, like, afancybank. It’s Brightside National. I’m a personal banking associate, which is just corporate for ‘person who apologizes for overdraft fees.’ I wear a name tag.”
I pause.
“My name is Mary.”
Even I wince at that.
“Mary,” I repeat, making a face. “Like some kind of old potato. It’s a tired name, isn’t it? I’m bored with it. I’ve been Mary for almost thirty years, and I’m honestly sick of it. I should be something dramatic. Like… Vesper. Or Blaze.”
A giggle escapes my throat, and I lean back too far, barely catching myself on the armrest.
“God. I’m so boring,” I sigh. “My job’s boring. My life’s boring. You ever just wake up one day and realize everything you’ve been waiting for is never gonna happen? Like… I thought he was gonna propose.”
The room shifts slightly. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the sudden weight in my chest.
“I waited for six years. You know what I got? A text message. And a ring emoji. Like it was a joke.”
My throat tightens. I swallow more wine. I should stop. I don’t.
“And the sex wasn’t even good,” I say, immediately horrified by myself. “Why did I stay that long if the sex wasn’t good? He made thissoundwhen he was about to come. Like a squirrel. Or a cartoon sneeze.”
Icackle. Full-on witch cackle. Because now that I’ve said it out loud, I can’t un-hear it either.Evan the Ejaculating Chipmunk.Jesus Christ.
“And I had topretend!” I continue, hands flailing. “Like full performance. Oscar-worthy moaning. I was a damn one-woman porn studio.”
I wave my wine glass around. “Six years of fake orgasms. You know what that does to a person? My old apartment probably needs an exorcism from all the lies I told in that bedroom.”
I clutch my chest, suddenly breathless with laughter. But then the laughter dies, fast and heavy.
“Do you know,” I say, blinking at the ceiling like it personally wronged me, “I’ve never actually had one? A real one?”
I gesture vaguely between my legs. “Like,the Big O? Zero stars. Would not recommend. The man couldn’t find my clit if it came with a Google Maps link and flashing neon lights.”
My voice cracks. “And I just… let that be my life. For years. Because he told me I was lucky to have someone like him. Like I was some kind of underperforming employee who should be grateful for minimum wage sex.”
I trail off.
Then freeze.
My eyes slowly shift back to the man standing across from me.
Still silent. Still staring. His eyes fixed on me with that unreadable expression.
Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m drunk, clinically unstable, or some kind of live art installation.
My hand slaps over my mouth too late.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. That was… That was a lot. I should not be saying that.”
He still says nothing.
“I think I’m drunk,” I whisper. Then louder: “I’m definitely drunk. Like… three-bottles-of-wine drunk. And I think my spleen is swimming.”
