by Gina Kincade
Is he serious, with his I-had-braces straight teeth and pec-hugging mustard apron? A split-second image of him above me, rolling those muscles while issuing the pounding he proposes with only the ugly-ass pinafore tied around his neck speeds my pulse.
I didn’t get a rebuttal with Steven, but this guy opens the litigious door and I love using legalese logic on twat-mongers. “Breakup sex refers to revisiting the horizontal mambo with an ex. As for the douchery you witnessed, you’ve blasted beyond what I believed possible in the realm of vaginal cleaning. Furthermore, if you were able-bodied enough to provide a hot cup of coffee in a timely manner, at least I would’ve had the buffer of java while I succumbed to the waste management of dating. You men smile and tease, trapping women with cheap cologne pheromones, then when we believe it’s time to cling you drop the guillotine blade, severing our head and tossing our heart in the dumpster.”
“Is that a no?” He has the audacity to wink.
A maniacal snort pushes free. “Hmm, let me think,” I dig my thumbnail under the rim of the plastic lid, popping it free. Before it floats to the floor I upend the cup, dumping the contents of my frothy latte on his head. Beige liquid swirling with white soaks his hair, tracking rivulets down his scruff-covered cheeks and the blob of whipped cream sits like a crown on his head. Satisfied with my response to his assholery, and his melted smile, I spin on the chunky end of my Jimmy Choo and strut through the exit.
Chapter Two
Messenger bag strapped over my chest, I stomp into the lobby throwing a shivering glance over my shoulder at the wicked Chicago winter, blustering outside the revolving door. Pissed over Steven and the barista’s nerve, I’m thankful Java Tom’s is on the ground floor of my office building. My shoes clip-clop on the linoleum, silencing when I stop to await the arrival of the elevator. A handful of fellow workers, dressed in the best office wear, follow me in the steel box. Each exiting on their floor while I ride to the top, still fuming.
The doors split and I ignore my secretary’s outstretched hand filled with messages, sending her a scathing growl as I slam my office door. Distracted, I toss my bag and flop in my chair.
“Where’s your coffee?”
“Ahhh!” I startle, damn near pooping myself, and fling a pack of Post-its in my fright. Her hand snags them out of the air in baseball player fashion. Heart sprinting in my chest, I stink eye my best friend, Georgia Simms, sitting coiffed and tall in one of the dual chairs at the front of my desk.
Slim legs crossed, the red sole of her sky-high pump plays peek-a-boo with the swinging of her foot. Charcoal pencil skirt modestly hemmed at her knee, pale pink silk shirt stretched across her ample chest, long platinum hair twisted in a chignon at the back of her head, and red paint accentuating her pouty lips, she’s poised and gorgeous.
“Thanks for the heads-up on someone in my office,” I shout to my assistant. She responds with a Ross from Friends fist bump telling me in a polite, I-won’t-fire-her-ass, way to fuck off. I envision drop-kicking her to the unemployment line, but she’s too good at her job to let go.
“Steven dumped me,” I answer, relaying my morning festivities.
She snags a nail file from my pencil holder, unimpressed with my latest toil in dating. Thoughts of yanking it from her hand, and stabbing her in the cocked eyebrow, send my hands fisting in my hair. Her sawing stops when I conclude my tail of woe with the audacity of the randy coffee dude.
“Your life before lunch is more exciting than a Spanish soap opera,” she laments. “Let me get all the facts. Steven, the man you referred to as dull as unbuttered toast, calls it quits before he seals the third date deal. New record for dumpage, by the way.”
Stabbing Georgia is more appealing by the second. I fist my hands at my sides because orange is not really the new black, and she has been my bestie since law school.
“So you’re all slimy lettuce covered in the trash heap of relationships,” she continues, aware of how my overactive mind plays out images. “Cute, ripped barista, who’s been eyeing you for months takes a leap of faith, offering a viable service.” I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a silencing hand. “He’s hot and you’ve been oblivious to his interest. His vulgar approach needs work, but come on, Lexi, the man screams orgasm-palooza, to which you respond by dumping coffee on his head, leaving you bitchy and sans caffeine.”
“He was repugnant,” I grumble.
“And hopping aboard your straw broom to cackle through the moonlight has nothing to do with Steven dismissing you four weeks before Valentine’s Day?”
She’s gloating. I hate her smug, I-know-you tone. “Dismissed? I wasn’t fired Georgia.”
“Weren’t you? To you, men are like an assorted box of chocolates. Gotta nibble each one to see if it’s one you want to eat. Dating is a part-time job for you, so when Steve-O slaps you against the foul pole, setting you free in the stands, wasn’t he claiming you inadequate per his specifications?”
“Stop watching baseball with Glenn,” I bark, hating how she found her person and willingly submits to the decorum of change and compromise by watching sports.
“Just saying, I wouldn’t kick coffee-man outta bed for eating crackers.” She shrugs; rising to her full five foot eleven height, she smoothes her skirt. “Come on. Staff meeting time.” Her cheery tone brings back my stabby tendencies.
***
Gathered around the conference table, my mind strays from the humdrum of my boss and senior partner, Roman Beacham’s client assignment. “Lex, I want you first chair on this and Georgia second.” His old, cigar-smoked voice barrels across the shining table.
“No disrespect, Roman, but this case is absurd. We can’t sue a greeting card giant for emotional suffering and distress because they promote Valentine’s Day.” Georgia shakes her head.
Chocolate, flowers, cards, gifts; it’s all a racket. A rat race of love peddlers, pointing fingers at our inadequacy because we’re alone on the one day of the year for lovers. The twenty-four hours where if you’re single, you become that kid in class who eats paste while picking his nose, who no one wants to sit by.
The thought of providing justice to the lonesome prompts a vision of me outside the courthouse, face painted all Mel Gibson Braveheart style while I battle cry before entering the fray. I slam my hand on the table. “I’ll take it.” Georgia rubs her temple, no doubt from the migraine I’m creating.
“Yes. I knew you would.” Roman smiles. “Smooth the horns from your hair before the client arrives.” My hands patting down the strands I’ve fisted to points. Roman snickers, shaking his head before dismissing us to our offices.
My assistant pauses her file organization, tapping the hold button on her phone. “You have a Miss Jessie Kellar waiting in your office.”
Her mad multitasking skills are the reason I put up with her surly attitude. I instruct her to search for similar cases and statutes. Georgia nabs my elbow. “We can’t win this.”
“It’s not always about winning, sometimes sending a message is enough.”
Chapter Three
Jessie Kellar’s case hits close to the heart, digging behind the rigid protection of my rib cage to the core of my glassy blood pumper. On the cusp of thirty, the firing squad’s ready and aiming armloads of cats and polyester muumuus.
Don’t get all huffy and judgy from my assessment. I’m twenty-eight-years-old and we all know death becomes the woman who’s single in her thirties. A life of taking in strays and content in baking cookies for other people’s joyous families hangs in the balance. I can’t even claim one solid relationship where the promise of marriage peeked on the horizon.
There was frat boy Ollie, who thought date night crested with the successful use of the beer bong. Legalese Lawrence, who prided himself on corporate law quizzes during intercourse, and don’t call him Larry because he would stick it in your poop shoot. The best, longest relationship was Pretty Boy Percy with the rich, detached parents in the Hamptons and starched polo shirts. We met an a
brupt end to our six-month affair when he confused me with his twelve other conquests, rolling through all the names like a teacher calling attendance as he orgasmed.
Those were my journeys through law school. While interning, I began a rather sordid tryst with a fellow clerk, who shall remain nameless. Discovered cavorting during one of our multiple copy room interludes by his fiancée, who he was dodging in the name of cold feet. His pleasing penis is now married with a child, despite his indiscretions. The highlight of the entire debacle was, under duress, I landed a job at Beacham and Jones with Georgia.
I’ve internet dated, swiped left, right, up, and down, which is how I met the latest in a lengthy list of failures; Steven. Dull, drab, colorless Steven Desmond. When he sat across from me, I saw him in black and white, and more than once he took on the form of dry toast. Not an herb-filled crouton, no, a slice of old, on the crest of mold petrified bread. We went on two dates, talked cases and current events, shared several chapped-lipped kisses and before the obligatory third date shag, well, you know what happened.
I perfected the art of giving love a bad name, Bon Jovi pun intended. In fact, it’s become my anthem, complete with red-tipped fingers and leg revealing short skirts. My hemline shortens with each man-snagging failure. A few more and my indecency level will reach contempt of court, Brazilian wax showing status.
If brains were height, I’d be Shaquille O’Neal; instead I spend megabucks tailoring my Armani, soft-as-a-baby’s-butt outfits. At five foot five the standard skirt hits me mid-calf. I bet you’re picturing a waif, thin pixie, all slicked up in thousand-dollar fancy wear.
Wrong again, my friend.
I’m more Taco Bell than Tinker, as in I’ve never bypassed a food truck. I’m plus-sized Midge to Georgia’s Barbie. Curving, seam-stretching hips, full badonkadonk, muscular swimmer’s legs, and enough chest I could grace the bow of a ship. A sinking Titanic type, but I’d look boss on the front as it was swallowed by the sea. To combat my youthful shortness, face full of freckles and wide indigo eyes, I keep my red hair shaggy, cut above my shoulders, wearing it wild to hide my lack of volume.
Again, this is a judgment-free zone. Women pad their bras promising fullness, which disappears the second the cups hit the floor; I puff out my strands under the same premise. So what if in the morning, should they stick around, I look like Tommy Pickles from Rugrats. At least my tits are real, never mind how they slink into my armpits when I lie down.
It’s all an illusion, broken the second we agree to commitment. He scratches his ass and balls, belches, passes gas, and leaves his socks inches from the clothes basket; my Spanx come off sagging my ass, releasing the pouchy belly, and exposing my cottage cheese thighs, followed by the drooping of the boobs without the assistance of underwire, and my hair flattens.
***
Under Georgia’s advisement, and because it’s too cold to venture elsewhere the next day, I slug back to Java Tom’s. She pointed out he’s single, sexy, and interested. His loathsome demeanor aside, he is no worse than the dating sites I use. At least he didn’t pull out his moron-stick, offering the equivalent of a dick pic.
Why men believe the way to entice a woman is with images of their mushroom heads I can’t fathom. All veiny and swollen; poised, waiting for their intended to woo and awe, when we all would rather slap a dunce hat on the little purple-crowned bugger and call it a day. Penises are akin to llamas: watch out they spit.
A line of judgmental grandmas line up, wagging a finger singsonging, “This is why you’re single.” Fact; men are yummy. They smell glorious, exude warmth, and those skilled in the map of a woman’s body, who know how to use the grower between their legs, are magnificent but at no time do I ever desire to see their dick. Nice asses; yes. Firm muscles; for sure. Adonis hip divots with rippling abs; bring it on, but hell-to-the-no on the moron-stick.
Seriously, men, stop. We laugh like hyenas over your ego-driven ignorance.
Armored in my slimming black Channel skirt and jacket, paired with a teal button-down Georgia swears turns my eyes tropical, I breeze in the café as if it’s any other day. I place my order, giving a surreptitious side-eye at the occupants behind the counter. His shaggy ebony head isn’t there.
Whew. My bolster deflates. I lower my chin, relax my shoulders, and step to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee. Humming the seven dwarfs’ homage to work, I run through my calendar.
“I made it special for you,” his syrupy smug tone pours over my skin.
Zip, rip, scratch. The needle scrapes through my song. Eyes saucer wide, my neck creaks rusty hinge style on my turn to where my orange cup taunts. A fuse runs out of the lid, sparking and firing as it burns.
Forearms flexed, he leans on the counter. Jaw shadowed with groomed stubble, his plump bottom lip pouts, tugging in on one side with his cocksure smirk. Thick wild strands dance on his forehead, spiking with envious thickness in a flurry around his head. His outstretched hand offers my drink.
My mind fancies my face turning green upon ingestion, eyes X’d over, I become a big round warning ick sticker as I drop to my death. Poisoned by the beverage I adore.
“I-I-I’m sorry. And, and, and thank you.” I refuse to meet his stare; considering the latte an olive branch of goodwill, I take the cup.
I turn to leave, happy with my interaction, when he jumps the counter. Color me impressed. “My offer stands. Go out with me.”
“What you offered and a date differ. How about we maintain a relationship of coffee-addict and dealer. Again, I apologize for yesterday, I’m not usually so volatile.”
“Is it the apron turning you off, or is my working as a lowly barista infecting your delicate sensibilities? Sometimes the lower-class is where it’s at, baby.”
His head morphs to a pink pig, snorting and grunting with his mud-covered snout. Off to the slaughterhouse with you piggy. Bacon cha-chas to “Three Little Pigs” by Green Jelly. Time to huff and puff his ego down.
“Don’t baby me, it’s gross and demeaning. You turn me off with your Jon Bon Jovi hair and over processed bulk. And you make shitty coffee. Good day.” I spin to leave.
“Good thing I made it with a healthy dose of bitch syrup today then, huh?”
A whistle sounds as steam pours from my ears. Lid off, I again dump the contents on his head, watching in fascination as it flattens his inky locks and sticks to his long curling lashes. I’m growing fond of the foamy crown on his head.
Resolving to brave the winter and find another place to buy my morning fuel, I stomp away ignoring his barreling laughter.
Chapter Four
Georgia rants the entire car serviced ride to the courthouse. She’s forever the voice of reason when our firm accepts frivolous cases, which somehow end up on my desk. This case proves I’m not the only lonely heart in the Windy City who hates the tradition of greeting card holidays.
A week after Miss Kellar hired our firm, she meets us outside the courtroom. Dressed frumpy in her floor-length brown skirt, makeup-free face, and tight ponytail, she shifts from foot to foot. A plain-Jane, who might never garner a second gawking from a man, because despite our claims—we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—we all do it. She might be the next Mother Teresa, but only a genuine man would look beyond the exterior.
Pshaw, let me know when you find one of those.
We explain to Jesse during our first meeting how garnering a win against a conglomerate like Budnik’s Greets is slim, but she wants the judge to decide.
Bud Budnik doesn’t bother with the little people; he sends his legal team instead. The five of them squeeze in at the defendants’ table dressed in suits as sad as the gray winter sky. If my give-a-damn wasn’t on the fritz, they’d be intimidating.
“All rise for the honorable Rhodes Milam,” the bailiff calls. I stand, eyes scanning my notes. “Be seated,” he commands, before droning the case and cause number.
When he finishes, I rise, look to the bench, and swallow my tongue. “You,” I chok
e, meeting the summer sky blues of the rebound sex-offering offender. Instead of a shit-colored apron, he’s draped in a black judge robe.
“Counsel,” he sneers. “In the spirit of transparency, I advise both parties of my familiarity with plaintiff’s representation. Would either of you prefer I recuse myself?”
“What is the nature of your relationship, your honor?” a nasally, stiff-backed, frowning man in a flat colorless suit asks. The whole of them looks like a child’s drawing of stick figures.
“She dumped coffee on my head during an altercation in my coffee shop. I assure you, I hold no bias.”
Whoa. Halt. Hold the fuck on. His café? As in, he owns it? A blowtorch blasts fire on my face, heating it to lava red as a barrage of arrows spear my chest deflating my lungs.
“Lexi,” Georgia breathes through a tight-jawed grin, shaking me from my mental assault.
After a quick confer with his fellow stiffs, Frowny-Face tips a constipated Grinch smile. “We’re fine with you presiding.”
“Lex.” I hold up a palm, urging Georgia to shut up. “Jesse, if we recuse him, it could be March before the case is heard. Any hope of winning this is founded in a ruling before the dreaded day. But the decision is yours.”
She blinks her doe eyes at Judge McSexy. “Let’s continue,” her mousy voice whispers.
“Your Honor, Alexandra Connor, counsel for the plaintiff. We’d like to proceed.”
“Very well. State your case, Miss Connor,” he chides.
A bite to my tongue keeps me from spearing him with my pen. A quick reminder to myself on how he’s not worth prison, and a deep inhale, I center myself. “Judge, my client has issued a complaint against Budnik’s Greets for emotional distress caused by the expectations of Valentine’s Day. The defendant profits from love, and while there is no precedent against it, those who don’t have a special person to share the day with suffer a form of panicked inadequacy. Many deal with depression through Christmas and when they reach a nirvana of acceptance, clawing to the surface, BAM, they’re kicked back down because they’re alone on the day for lovers.”
