Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  Thus far I’ve learnt that Dublin is a lawyer too, but he does criminal. He looks like he’s in his mid-40s, a tall, pale guy with dark brown hair and a beaky nose. Definitely Irish, which I already knew because Emma coined the nickname after their first hook up. If I'm to be objective about it, he's cute and nice, if a little vanilla which I guess isn’t surprising because he’s married. Marriage always makes people boring. Have you ever heard of someone getting married then becoming more fun? Nope, because it’s one of those laws of physics. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, and boring men stay at the same speed and direction of boringness unless acted upon by an unbalanced force (i.e. awesome, fun, spontaneous women who open their horizons). Without this unbalance force in their life, a boring man stay on that trajectile until he dies old and alone and having achieved nothing in his miserable, boring life.

  Wow… I am in a really dark mood since yesterday (fucking Stranger). I feel like I’m boring y’all with my negativity spiral. Must snap out of it. I take another swig of champagne and look up at Dublin Wanker Man. He has pretty blue eyes, as so many Irish lads and lassies do. Not as pretty as Blue’s though… But before the thought has the chance to formulate properly I banish it. Blue is not hot.

  Maybe Emma’s been bitten by the same I-dig-blue-eyes bug? And just in case you’re wondering, Dublin’s wearing an orange shirt. Emma is wearing a green dress. Arianna is wearing a tight, hot red number that shows off those incredible boobs and that delicate waist. Their house is full of people that, to my delight, are mostly in green. Few are wearing as much as me though. I am the Green Machine.

  The more bubbly I chug down the more I resent Emma for asking me to keep Dublin company. Some of the Beautiful People are wearing green tonight even though I've always thought they were taken. Like dishy David.

  What to say to get Dublin to go away?

  “So, you’re married huh?” I take another swig of my Moet.

  His eyes widen a smidge but he has a good poker face.

  “Emma told you?”

  “I’m her sister, Mack Daddy. I know all. So tell me, why aren’t you wearing your wedding band tonight?”

  I can tell Emma is eavesdropping again because I see her shoulders rise with tension. Dublin takes a long sip of his Heineken, but before replying we hear a squeal behind us,

  “Penny!”

  It’s red hot Arianna making her way towards us, albeit very wobbly-like. As she stumbles through the crowd she trips on the edge of the rug and falls into Dublin’s arms. Her eyes look... something. She puts her arms around us and pulls our faces down so that we are huddling,

  “Mi amors, my friends, I just gotta say just one thing, just.”

  She abruptly stops, instead staring down at the carpet, apparently in deep concentration.

  “What baby?” I smile.

  “Wait a minute... I just had it,” she continues staring down at the rug.

  “I got it!” She yells, looking up, “isn’t it great being hostess? It'll be so easy to get home at the end of the night!”

  “Damn straight,” I laugh.

  Whatever she’s taken, I want some.

  “So Penny, Emma tells me you’re a lawyer too?” Dublin takes another sip of beer, but he’s interrupted by Emma who barges between me and Arianna.

  “Can I grab both you ladies?” Emma snaps.

  “Yay!” Arianna replies.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” I concur.

  Emma takes an arm each and marches us into the kitchen. Once there Arianna ignores Emma, stomps up to the fridge and takes out a Crabbies.

  “Don’t be shy chicken, grab me one too,” I instruct.

  And suddenly Arianna and I are giggling hysterically, I don’t know why. I think the bubbles are warping my fragile little mind.

  “C’mon guys, I like him,” Emma scolds, “why are you trying to embarrass me?”

  With her arms crossed she suddenly looks very much like our mother.

  “You can’t be serious?” I say, “Em, he's married!”

  “He's separated, it happened last week.”

  “Oh gosh, I wonder why? Maybe it has something to do with a young, hot twenty-something sister of mine suddenly giving him the cookie?”

  “That's not true! But do you really think I’m hot?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. Does Rusty know about your newfound feelings for another man? Even though let's not forget, Rusty's married too.”

  She’s feeling intimidated, I can tell. Growing up I was always taller, bigger and spoke with more confidence. It didn't matter whether I was right or wrong, I always won any argument. I’d either yell over her, or punch her, or tackle her to the ground and tickle her until she surrendered or threw up, whichever came first.

  Over the years Emma’s developed several defence techniques. One is to run out of the room (very effective). The other is to change the subject. Unsurprisingly, she does both now,

  “You should look after Arianna. I’m going back in there to damage control. I cannot believe you told him about the Coke bottle. We made a pact.”

  She turns up her nose and walks out.

  “Wow, this kettle is so shiny,” I hear behind me. Arianna is sitting on the kitchen counter, rocking their blender in her arms.

  As I pry it from her vice like grip we are joined by two of the Beautiful People. I haven’t had a chance to get to know Juan or dishy David very well. David is always talking to Juan, Juan is always talking to Arianna. He’s had a massive crush on her since forever, but she’s been with Stranger-Danger Bruno since forever, so all Juan’s efforts have been in vain since forever. Speaking of forever, David has had a girlfriend since forever. And yet he has donned le green tonight. Most intriguing.

  To my delight I learn that he and his girl split up a few weeks ago. As in, not to my delight because I wish them badly, but to my delight because single male 8s, 9s and 10s are rarer than a chupacabra (mythical cat-goat animal thingy). While the Stranger is pure Spanish heartthrob, David is a British born-and-bred hanger-oner-er to the Beautiful People. Unlike the others he doesn’t speak with a Spanish accent nor possesses that lovely Mediterranean tan. I think he knows them through work. I guess they accepted him into their super exclusive clique because, well, he’s beautiful. David is at least an 8.5. He’s tall (as they all are) with a slim but nice build. His skin is pale but his eyes and hair are dark. Onyx-black dark. And he has nice hands. I’m big on nice hands. There’s nothing worse than those long, spindly pencil fingers, or short, hairy-knuckled stumpy ones.

  Pulling an 8.5 is excellent work as far as I’m concerned so I launch into conversation, full of hope and eager anticipation.

  An hour later I’m leaning on my elbows on the kitchen counter, both hands holding up my glum cheeks, so bored I think it might be terminal. I occasionally take a hand and start tapping the counter top, hoping he’ll get the message. He doesn’t. Over the course of the past hour I’ve discovered why this guy is so pale. I have inadvertently started conversing with that most elusive of hot guys - Video Game Dude.

  “I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink coffee, I barely even drink. I game competitively, which I think is a far superior addiction.”

  “Really, wow, that’s great.” I mumble through my cheeks with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  It’s been over an hour since he started talking about this crap and you know what? I’m starting to see that the anti-social members of the general public who choose to stay in on Friday nights, record-listening and sushi-making and playing with their cats, have a point. Extricating oneself from a conversation you have absolutely no interest in hearing about, without seeming rude or socially ungraceful, is impossible. Impossible, I tells ya! I can’t just walk away, I need an excuse to walk away, but there’s ice cold brewskis all around us and as much food as I want on the counter. I’m going to have to use – you guessed it - my ever reliable bathroom trick.

  But he’s still talking, not givin
g me a chance to lie about my urgent bladder relief requirements,

  “... it’s all about pattern recognition. If you don’t recognise the sequence coming up in a Doom Time Phase Event you’re efforts are as useless as a kill screen. Just last night I was playing Grand Theft Auto and I lost concentration for a second...”

  He goes on while I roll my eyes at the ceiling and swirl the warm dregs of champagne at the bottom of my bottle. This guy is killing my buzz. I’ve demoted him to a 6. As I’m about to take another bored sip I feel a shadow come up beside me and start yanking at my arm.

  “Penny! Rusty’s here!”

  I turn away from droll David and look down at my panicked sister,

  “Rusty? As in the other married guy Rusty?” I feel my eyes widening in surprise.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Emma is jumping from foot to foot, “he was supposed to fly back to Vienna this weekend but he’s stayed to surprise me. What do I do? If he sees me with Dublin, or if Dublin sees me with him... Oh shit!”

  I raise my eyebrows. Emma never swears. I grip her shoulders with both hands,

  “Calm down. I’ll go distract Dublin, you go speak with Rusty. Tell him you want to escape, that the party is too loud and you want some privacy. Get him to take you out to dinner. It’s too risky having them both in the same city, let alone the same house.”

  Emma looks relieved.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She follows me to the door of the lounge room. I give her a wink as I slap her bum lightly in the direction of carrot top freckle guy, who I instantly recognise as Married Guy Number Two. I start to walk over to the fireplace where Dublin is checking his phone. I’m going to have to have a serious chat with Emma about this whole sleeping-with-two-married-guys debacle. I’m not sure if it’s technically cheating, I mean, can you cheat on a guy who is himself cheating? Regardless, the bottom line is that no one should cheat because it’s just such a pain in the ass.

  Maybe it’s my laziness talking, but I can’t imagine anything worse than having two boyfriends / lovers / guys-I’m-trying-to-get-to-date-me at the same time. The time-math doesn’t add up. There are only seven nights in a week. I need to allocate at least one to running, so I’ve made that Mondays. Twice a week I hang out with the girls, dinner with Chloe or a poetry recital with Mags or just heading out to a bar with them. So say that’s Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are usually drinks with work people. Saturdays are spent with Emma. Sundays are designated Hangover Day, or English Breakfast Fry Up Day, or Retro Movie Day (or all three).

  That leaves Wednesdays. My one day of the week where I don’t always have plans, and every second Wednesday I’m usually dragged to a networking event. The times when I have had a boyfriend / fiancé / whatever, I’ve had to give up a lot of the stuff I usually do when I’m single. I end up seeing the girls only once a week (if that), I don’t go out with work people on Fridays and wind up ignoring Emma’s texts on Saturdays.

  So with that in mind, can you imagine having two boyfriends? Where would I find the time? Where does anyone find the time? Do these people have some sort of special super secret Time Making Machine that magics a couple of extra nights a week? Because if they do, they really should share it with the world.

  I'm almost beside Dublin now. I’m about to tap him on the shoulder when I see a hallucination walk through the door. It feels like that burrito from lunch has jumped up from my tummy and lodged itself in the back of my throat (mmm... semi-digested burrito...)

  I cannot believe my eyes. They literally do not register the person in front of me. I think I’m imagining it. It’s a dream. It cannot be real.

  He’s wearing a red t-shirt and is walking towards me with a bashful smile. It's the Stranger.

  ***

  “Hola chica.”

  Why is he wearing red? Is it for me? It can't possibly be for me? If it’s not for me than who is it for?

  He pulls me into his arms.

  “I thought... you travelling?”

  It’s the best I can manage. Penny no function brain well without.

  I suddenly feel ridiculously self conscious about my all-green ensemble. I begin to blush, but with shame and regret as opposed to embarrassment. With his arms around my waist, his gorgeous head buried in my mane of blonde curls, I subtly shove both hands behind my back and try to pry off my green bangles. They click as they hit the floor. Not that it’ll help much, but it’s better than nothing, right?

  “I come back on earlier flight,” he says as he nuzzles deeper in my shoulder.

  I start silently thanking God for remembering to douse myself with my D&G Velvet Rose right before I left my apartment.

  “Why are you wearing red?” I ask.

  He looks down and says the most perfect words in existence,

  “For you, mi amor.”

  I’m a goner. I grab his face in my de-bangled hands and in a wild, quasi-bewildered display of passion I start kissing him. We kiss and kiss and kiss. This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me, and all it took was a red t-shirt on an emotionally unavailable man. Who might not be that emotionally unavailable after all.

  I eventually pull away,

  “You’re really wearing it for me? I don’t understand, I thought…”

  I thought you would be dating the vile seductress by now? I thought you weren’t interested? I thought you were travelling today? I thought you don’t do relationships? I thought I thought I thought…

  But instead of raising any of those questions, I cheat. I end my mental line of inquisition with,

  “Never mind.”

  We cuddle some more, and just before I succumb to officially falling in love with this guy the last lines of my defence system surge. Be careful Penny, that voice warns. This guy is a distorting mirror. A life with him will be a mesh of insecurity and suffering alternating with magic and romance. The only way to understand him is to open yourself up and become vulnerable all over again. Will you ever know what is really going on inside his soul? Will you ever truly know what lies beneath?

  Romantic Left Brain immediately starts talking back to cautious Right Brain. Oh shut up. Why can’t you just go with the flow a little more? You’re young, he’s young, no one’s clocks are ticking, this is the perfect time to be a little impulsive and madcap. He’s done something really sweet for you tonight. Maybe it won’t be repeated tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again, but you should relish it now. This moment is the one that matters.

  But the distorting mirror theory! Sensible Right puts up one final fight.

  Balls to that. So he’s a distorting mirror, big whoop. You’re an adult, you can handle it. Enjoy now, ask questions later.

  I still haven’t fully registered that he has come dressed in red for me. For weeks, months, it has felt like getting this guy into a relationship was the equivalent to running up a hill. An icy hill. In roller-skates. Pushing a hundred tonne boulder. And yet, here it is. Is this the cosmos throwing me a bone after all the caustic relationships and disgusting men I’ve been subject to in the past?

  As the Stranger and I kiss and hug and nuzzle our faces into each others’ necks, I get this niggling feeling that I’ve forgotten something…

  Oh my god, Emma!

  I spot them immediately. Dublin is no longer in front of the fireplace, he’s standing with Rusty and Emma near the front door. My pint sized sister’s face is as white as a funeral lily, her blue-green eyes large as saucers. Her lips are parted in fear, and is it just me or is she shaking? The looming figures of Dublin and Rusty tower over her threateningly. Dublin looks upset, Rusty looks livid.

  I take the Stranger’s hand and rush over in their direction. As we near I see Rusty’s face is bright red, so red that the freckles on his face aren’t showing anymore. I find this amusing for the briefest of moments, before he takes an aggressive step towards Emma and starts shouting in her face,

  “Is that true? Did you tell this guy that he was your preferred option?”

  �
��No… I mean… no of course not.”

  Worried, I step forward to help but feel the Stranger holding me back. I consider shrugging him off but maybe his arm-pull has made a valid point. Maybe it’s time to stop being the overprotective sister?

  “Then what?” Dublin asks her loudly, “he’s the one you want to be with? What the fuck, Emma?”

  “I… I…” The small white animal which used to be my sister stutters.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been with another guy this whole time!” Rusty yells.

  “I… Uh… Um…”

  People are starting to mass around them. Ignoring the crowd Rusty takes another step forward so that his face is a few inches away from Emma’s. They’re almost nose to nose. He lifts up his hand and starts jabbing an accusatory finger in her face. I’m so shocked that at first I don’t move. His face has turned into an angry snarl,

  “You fucking bitch, you don’t even have the decency to admit it. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Oh no you di’int! Not time to be the overprotective sister? Like fun it’s not!

  I literally push the Stranger off me as my body fills with piping hot rage. In a split second I have shoved myself between Emma and Rusty. I’m facing him, my face as red as his. I knock his finger out of the way with a hard slap and point my finger up to his face.

  “You don’t speak to her that way, motherfucker!” I yell.

  I hear the room emit a collective gasp. It’s gone deathly quiet (well, except for the really loud music). Rusty’s face grows even redder (if that’s possible) and his body tenses. He moves up so that our faces are only a few centimetres apart. I’m a head taller than Emma but still slightly shorter than him. I know he wants me to feel intimidated (and trust me, I do), but I won’t back down. No fucking way.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He barks.