by Beth Michele
I try to regain my weakened composure and head into work. I literally have to shake myself to erase the erotic images from my mind. Two thoughts occur to me as I enter the double doors of Landon & Castell. First, I need to find out who the hell those green eyes belong to; and second, I need a cold shower.
I see the red light on my phone blinking from what seems like a mile away. I plunk down on my chair, throw my purse in my desk drawer, and take the deep breath that I need to run through all my messages and the overwhelming amount of post-it notes Robby always leaves for me. They’re everywhere. On my computer, my desk, the wall of my cubicle, and he even stuck one on the picture of Fran and me at Fisherman’s Wharf. I think he just likes the idea of sticking them to something. I’ve got thirty messages. Shit. As I scroll through them, I find that half of them are garbage and just leave my finger on the delete button.
My electronic schedule says Robby and I have to visit three clients, and the fifteen “urgent” messages indicate that there are various issues with furniture orders to sort out. I’m really not complaining. This is a very cool job. It gets me closer to my dream of being an interior designer, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid. Memories flood my mind of buying stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest and Better Homes & Gardens magazines, wanting to absorb the color palettes and furniture choices while I played out the fantasy in my head. I’d sit there for hours, tearing out pictures I liked and making collages, only to end up annoying my mother by leaving paper scraps all over the floor. I’d smile though, when I’d look up at the fairy pink walls covered with my childhood dreams filling up every open space of my room. It was something my parents couldn’t touch or crush within me.
The day drags at a snail’s pace. I’m getting ready to leave when my cell phone vibrates. I let it go because, admittedly, I like the sensation. When the buzzing continues, I finally check and see that it’s Fran. I pick up the phone with excitement for the first time all day. “Hey!”
“Hey,” she replies. Her voice lacks her usual burst of enthusiasm.
“What’s wrong?” Did you have a bad day?” It’s unusual for Fran to let things get to her, so I know it can’t be good.
She groans. “Yeah. It was shitty. I had a client want me to redesign a brochure six times before they were happy, my boss got on my ass about being late because I missed an important client meeting, and my heel broke while I was out getting lunch. All in all it was a banner day. Yours?”
“It was long, and very busy.” Knowing my day is coming to an end puts a smile on my face for the first time, and I relax. “So, I’m assuming you want to go out? How about a movie with a giant tub of buttered popcorn and a jumbo pack of Twizzlers? We can get lost for a little while.”
“Yes, I want to go out, but not to a movie. I need a drink, or a few drinks. There’s a new bar that opened up on Amsterdam Avenue and I want to check it out.”
“Oh.” I hesitate before answering her. My first thought is she’s going to try and set me up like she usually does, and I’m not in the mood.
“So, are you in?” she asks, her voice raising an octave.
“On one condition,” I add reluctantly. I have to be honest, right?
She chuckles. “And that would be…”
“It’s just been a long day, Fran. I don’t want you trying to work your love magic on me tonight. Also, before I forget, I need to stop by Bloomingdale’s first.”
“Alright, deal,” she asserts a little too quickly. “Why do we need to stop at Bloomies?”
“There’s a dress I want to try on for our company party. I want to see what you think.”
“Great. Oh, and by the way, someone is coming by the apartment tomorrow to exterminate. I found a lovely little cockroach behind the fridge this morning.”
“Ew!” I can’t stand those pesky little things. Fran and I have lived for almost three years in an extremely small two bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. It’s actually a pre-war walk up, tastefully decorated with very special discount and consignment store items and a couple sale items from IKEA. The only thing not-so-charming about it is the little roach problem, which has taken some getting used to. “Gee, thanks for that.”
“Anytime. See you soon.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fran is waiting for me outside of Landon & Castell, looking stunning, as always. With wavy, shoulder length ebony hair, bright green eyes, a fair complexion with a hint of pink, and curves that make men swoon, Fran oozes sex appeal. Her tight white tank accentuates her breasts, while her short black skirt shows off her long, shapely legs. Her feet are covered by Jimmy Choo heels in the same color. “You look hot, Fran!” I look down at my gray pencil skirt and white blouse and suddenly feel very undressed.
She lets out a sexy laugh. “I’m on fire every night. Now if I could only find someone to put out that fire, my world would be complete. By the way, notice the new pumps? Breaking a heel is a great excuse to buy a new pair of shoes…not that I ever need an excuse to shop!”
My mind drifts from Fran to the hotness on the street this morning. It’s hard to shake that visual.
Fran waves her hand in front of my face. “Hello? Earth to Gabby, where’d you go?”
“I’m here,” I murmur as I float back down to earth. “Now, let’s go see about that dress.”
We’re making our way over to Bloomingdale’s, and I can’t help but notice people staring at me. It’s really starting to piss me off. “Fran, do I have something on my face?”
She looks at me with a confused smile. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s just that I feel like everyone’s looking at me, and it’s getting annoying.”
“Oh my God, Gabby. When are you going to get a clue? You’re beautiful! That’s why everyone is staring. Do you know how many women would kill to look like you without having to slather shitloads of makeup on their face? You don’t even have to try and you’re gorgeous. Hell, you get out of bed in the morning and you’re a guy’s wet dream. That’s just sickening, even to me.”
I let out a frustrated groan. That’s the total opposite of everything my parents said when I was growing up. It was always about them not liking the clothes I picked out, or wanting me to cut my hair a different way, or how I’d look prettier with makeup. I remember my mom taking me to Macy’s and making me sit through one of those complimentary makeup sessions at the Clinique counter. Afterwards she always bubbled, see how much prettier you look now? Isn’t every parent supposed to think their child is beautiful? That their child is smart? That their child is worthy? She’ll never know how deeply her comments hurt me.
A huge sigh leaves my chest. “Can we just go check out my dress please?”
When we get to the store, I eye the dress again in the window, and know it’s perfect. Fran waits outside the dressing room while I try it on. The dress moves over my body and once it’s in place I realize why it caught my eye. It’s just like everything else in my closet. The blue satin looks even prettier up close, it has a high neckline so it’s not too revealing, and it falls below my knee. It doesn’t really accentuate anything, which is why it works for me. I tend to pick the boring, traditional clothes lacking pizzazz, while Fran’s choices are always funky and accentuate what she’s got. She won’t like this dress because it’s too conservative.
I walk out of the dressing room and Fran’s mouth hangs open. I guess she feels the same way. “Gabby…that’s the dress you were dying to show me?”
“Yes, why?” I try to act innocent, but even I know this dress is boring with a capital B.
“Honey, it’s too conservative. There’s not an ounce of skin showing. We need to find you another dress.”
I certainly know my best friend and that alone is a good feeling. Predictability wins out, however, and my mouth turns down in a pout. Suddenly I’m eight years old, standing in front of my mom, trying to convince her to let me choose my own clothes for school. “But I like this one, Fran,” I whine.<
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“Sweetie. I know you have a tendency toward the conservative, but come on, you have to let loose a little. Show a little morsel. You have an amazing figure, but you hide it under all those clothes.”
“I don’t want to look like a slut, Fran!” I practically shout and see a woman whip her head around and peek at us through a rack of clothes.
“Gabby, showing a little cleavage isn’t going to make you a slut. Sleeping around is the only thing that will grant you that very special title, so you’re in the clear.”
Fran starts rifling through racks looking for the perfect dress for me, which, quite frankly, makes me nervous. Our sense of style is just so completely different. After an hour of trying dresses on, I’m about ready to throw in the towel. Then I see her eyes light up. “That’s the one!”
It’s an olive green satin dress with a low cut scoop in the front and a V in the back, cut slightly above the knee. Something I would never wear. “Fran, that’s way too revealing. I can’t wear it!”
“Try it on, for heaven’s sake. Can you just do that for me?” She gives me her best puppy dog eyes, and I have no choice but to concede.
I don’t look in the mirror until I’m zipped. At first glance the fabric and cut seem to show way too much skin, but if I’m honest with myself, it makes me feel sexy.
Fran eyes me appreciatively, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Am I good, or am I good? That dress is perfect!”
I stare blankly at Fran. “I don’t know, Fran.”
“Gabby, you look beautiful. Really, honey. I mean, come on, you’re five foot seven, with beautiful chestnut hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a great figure! When are you going to start realizing this?”
My mother’s voice plays like a record in my head. Gabby, dear. That dress shows too much of that curvy figure and it makes your legs look skinny. It’s not flattering at all. In fact, it’s an unattractive look for you.
Fran’s eyes meet mine. “Well, we both know your mother’s like the scarecrow from your favorite movie…you know, the one that doesn’t have a brain.”
Excitement builds as we make our way over to the Sky Bar, the new lounge on the Upper West Side. After my new dress and Fran’s pep talk, I’m definitely up for some fun; maybe a little harmless flirting. Maybe more. Who knows. Maybe I should let Fran set me up. Or maybe this is my sexual frustration talking. It’s been a while.
We enter the bar and it’s wall to wall people. Ugh. Sweaty bodies are rubbing up against me and the body odor is offensive. Someone just grabbed my ass. Gah! A shattering sound catches my attention and I look over to see a nervous waitress anxiously scooping up glass from the floor, trying to hide the red consuming her pretty face. I scan the room. Everyone here seems to be looking for something. A good time, a few drinks, an escape from their day, a sexual encounter, or even love, I suppose. As that last thought hits me, I wonder why anyone would go looking for love in a bar. I mean, let’s be real, this isn’t the place to find the key to your heart. The key to your vagina, maybe.
As I ponder my thoughts on the philosophy of life, Fran taps me on the shoulder. “What do you want to drink? The usual?”
“No way, Fran. Screw that. Tonight I’m living on the edge. I’ll have a lemon drop.”
“Wow, Gabby.” She swipes the back of her hand across her forehead, feigning surprise. “That’s your idea of living on the edge?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why, what’s wrong with a lemon drop?”
“Sweetie. Lemon drops are for college girls, not a gorgeous, sophisticated woman like yourself. You really want to take a walk on the wild side? I’m ordering you a martini with an olive.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Okay, Fran, whatever.”
Fran and I take a seat at the bar and wait for our drinks. My eyes wander and I scope out the crowd, hoping to find someone that might be worth a second look. Anyone with emerald eyes. Realizing I forgot to tell Fran about my encounter, if you could even call it that, I start to tell her when she cuts me off. “Fran, you’ll never believe what happen—”
“Please tell me you took that guy Scott you work with right across your desk and had your wicked way with him!” Leave it to Fran to think it was about hot sex. She’s always having hot sex, or thinking about it. God, I do envy her sometimes.
“As appealing as that sounds, no. I was on my way to work this morning when I saw the hottest freaking guy in creation.”
Fran waits expectantly for me to elaborate and is disappointed, as usual. “That’s it? That was your interesting morning?! I hope there’s more to tell that makes it interesting.”
“Well, there isn’t really. Except that he was hot and seriously sexy. Tall, with shiny black hair, sparkling emerald green eyes, golden brown skin, and a rock hard body.” I didn’t tell her about the orgasm I practically had right on the street, or that my panties almost disintegrated the moment I saw him.
“Please tell me you tackled him and ripped his clothes off. Or, at least got his phone number.”
That does sound appealing. The idea of hot sex with no commitment might be the way to go. At least it would be a great distraction. “Fran, as much as the idea of that turns me on, all I did was embarrass myself when he caught me staring. I’m sure he didn’t think twice about it. He probably gets it all the time.”
Fran waggles her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure he gets it all the time.”
I smack her shoulder. “Do you ever think about anything besides sex? Nevermind, don’t answer that.”
“Hmmm...well, no, and why would I want to? Gabby, let’s be honest, you need to get laid. It’s been a while, and you’ve been very cranky lately, not to mention the fact that I found an excessive amount of empty Swedish Fish bags and Hershey’s Kiss wrappers when I was taking out the garbage…a telltale sign. We need to remedy this situation and fast. You’re not yourself, but I’m sure it’s nothing a good, hot piece of ass can’t take care of.”
I crinkle my nose. “Oh my God, Fran, you’re incorrigible!” She’s not paying attention to me anymore, but looking toward the end of the bar. “What are you staring at?”
Her hand fans her face. “Check out those two hotties over there!”
I see two tall, honey blondes in very expensive-looking gray suits, one with blue eyes, the other with brown, both with muscular physiques. Blonde isn’t really my preference. They make their way over after they catch us staring. The one with blue eyes speaks first.
“Hi, what are you two ladies drinking?”
Fran immediately pipes up. “Vodka tonic, and a martini.” Then she moves closer to me and whispers “I’ll take the one with the sexy birthmark.”
I smirk and look over at her. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just take whatever’s left.”
Blue eyes leans in and extends his hand. He’s handsome, I guess, with a broad smile and a cleft in his chin. “I’m Blaine, and this is my friend, Kyle.” Kyle’s birthmark accentuates his full lips and he looks a bit like a Calvin Klein model, except with a suit as opposed to the fabulous tight-fitting underwear. Judging by the way he fills out his suit, I imagine he looks great in his underwear, too. Both of them.
Fran, of course, starts. “I’m Fran, and this is Gabby.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” they both say at the same time.
We all giggle a little nervously. Fran’s making eyes at Kyle and I’m hoping the floor will open and swallow me.
“This is the first time we’ve been here,” Kyle says. “What about you?”
“Yes, this is our first time, too,” I agree, trying to make sure they’re aware I can actually speak. “So, what do you both do?”
“We work at a hedge fund on Wall Street.” Of course.
“What about you two?” Kyle asks, and I notice he moves closer to Fran.
“I work at an interior design firm,” I respond. I keep my answers short in hopes that they’ll tire of us, or at least me, and move along.
“Graphic design studio,” Fran says, polis
hing off her second vodka tonic.
As we continue to make what I feel is boring conversation with Blaine and Kyle, the drinks keep coming, and the martinis are giving me a good buzz. After drink number three, I notice Blaine’s arm sneak around and massage my waist. Needless to say, I’m not that buzzed. I immediately move his hand away and see the smile on his face turn into a frown. No matter how fuzzy the alcohol is making me feel, it’s not enough to want a one night stand right now; not with this guy anyway.
Nothing about Blaine interests me and I find myself tuning him out and checking out the other guys at the bar. A warm body finds the seat next to me and a musky aroma floats in my direction. It smells familiar and I suddenly feel nauseous.
I anxiously turn to Fran. “I’ve got to get out of here.” The smell is invading the void in my heart and a longing is taking over, one that I can’t cope with because it just hurts too much.
“What’s wrong?” A look of concern crosses her face.
What am I supposed to tell her? She’s heard it all before…that every night when I close my eyes I see Clark’s face, his smile, hear his voice…that I still smell his musky scent…that sometimes I try with every bone in my body to remember what it felt like to have his arms around me. She knows I end up sobbing some nights because it’s getting harder and harder to remember. I don’t want the memory; I want Clark. “I just need to go, Fran.”
“Okay, then I’m coming with you.”
“No, you stay and have fun. I’ll see you at home later.”
Fran puts her hands on her hips. “No way. I’m coming, too.”
“Okay.”
We say hurried goodbyes to Blaine and Kyle and stumble towards the subway. Fran puts her arm around my shoulder. “So, what happened in there?”
