Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  “It wasn’t my fault. It was my butt.”

  “Come again.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  That’s funny, I think. “That’s not funny,” I say.

  “I butt-dialed him.”

  “You did not.”

  “Okay, I didn’t. But, that’s what I told Robin. I called him, thought better of it, and hung up. But when he called me back, I answered. We talked. He came over. And then we did what we did and it felt wonderful.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re back together.”

  “No,” Brice sighs. “He’s in a relationship.”

  “What?!”

  “He says he doesn’t care for this new guy half as much as he cares for me.”

  “Cares for you?”

  “He’s still in love with me.”

  “Call me when you’re sober and recognize what an idiot you’re being.”

  “I’m not being an idiot,” Brice says incredulously.

  I hang up anyway.

  Chapter Thirty

  “I’m an idiot.” The call comes at 10:00 a.m. I knew it would.

  “I know,” I say. “But, we all are when it comes to love. Especially when it comes to exes.”

  “He used me.”

  “Brice, it’s Robin. That’s what he does.”

  “Oh, but he’s so good at it,” he laments.

  “They all are,” I say.

  Brice responds that he simply fell off the wagon and is going back on his dating diet immediately. Knowing his history with both dieting and men, I’m not too optimistic. Still, I hold out hope…

  Three days later, when Robin still hasn’t called, my best friend is apoplectic.

  “That son of a bitch! I hate him. I finally hate him.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  We are out walking. Brice has decided that he needs some fresh air and exercise and I’ve decided that we might as well do something other than sit around eating and talking. So we’re walking and talking instead.

  “What if he had called?” I ask. “You don’t want to be his boy-toy Brice. Besides, Robin’s a bona fide cheater. He cheated on you and now he’s cheating on his new guy. He won’t come back to you, and, even if he does, there’s no way he’ll be faithful.”

  Brice nods reluctantly. He doesn’t want to agree with me, but he does. It’s always hard when you realize that someone you have feelings for thinks you’re disposable. I remember Chuck last year—unhappily married, cheating, father of a student, unfaithful to his wife, pretending to be divorced Chuck. I’d fallen for his act hook line and sinker. Until I woke up. And it took me climbing out a window naked to see the light of day. In retrospect, there had been signs, but I ignored them or let him explain them away. I say all this to my best friend who wraps me up in a bear hug.

  “Remember how much he hurt you?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Brice nods.

  “Good. Don’t ever forget it because the moment when you forget what a scumbag Robin is will be the moment that you risk letting him back into your heart.”

  “Not to mention my bed.”

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I can’t believe my brothers with their— gag me—double wedding. I mean, their beautiful, extremely expensive, well-organized, and well-executed wedding. Everything is thrown together quickly. Within a few months of their engagements, the couples are getting ready to walk down the aisle. Why the hurry? When I ask John about it, he lies and says that he just doesn’t want to be a bachelor anymore. When I ask William, he lets slip that, by getting married before the end of their company’s fiscal year, he can file as a married person thereby netting him considerable tax benefits.

  “Why not get it done early and take advantage of the write-offs?” he says. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Tiffany or April. Neither one is very practical and the party line is that John and I could take off work easier for the honeymoon around this time of year. Really, it’ll save us a bundle on taxes and our bonuses were really high this year.”

  Thinking of my brother’s matter-of-fact reasoning, I cringe.

  “Dunkin, would you ever get married to avoid paying taxes?”

  “Not on your life,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder as we take our seats in the front row on the grooms’ side of the church. “Would you?”

  “Thankfully, my brain doesn’t operate that way. The thought would never even dawn on me.”

  “I’ll tell you the thought that’s dawning on me…” Dunkin smirks.

  I know that look. When Dunkin gets that look in his eyes, I’m in trouble.

  “We’re in a church,” I say.

  “You look incredibly sexy.”

  When I bought this dress last year, I’d been a few pounds slimmer. Today, my breasts, buoyed by the extra insulation, have floated to the surface of the dress and are protruding from my neckline, two ripe melons presenting themselves for inspection. The wedding isn’t going to start for fifteen minutes so I tell Dunkin to save my seat and slip off to the bathroom where I remove my tights and underwear and slip them into my purse. I’m going to titillate my boyfriend. He’s let me know he’s in the mood. Well, two can play at this seduction game. I’ve never exactly been a seductress and I’m fairly certain I won’t become one, but, stripped of my undergarments, I feel sexy. I feel desirable.

  I slip back into the pew beside my boyfriend and whisper lightly into his ear “Hi, there, handsome.”

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  He hands me a slip of paper. I unfold it. Within the folds he has drawn a naughty image of two people, presumable us, engaged in various lewd and lascivious asks. I laugh.

  “What do you say you and I…” Dunkin points suggestively at the paper “later?”

  “Great minds think alike,” I say. “Look in my purse.”

  His pupils magnify as he sees my lacy thong and removed tights.

  “You mean?”

  “Yep. I’m commando.” I cross and uncross my legs enticingly. I guess Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct performance taught me a thing or two.

  “Woman, you’ll be the death of me,” he says, but he is smiling broadly.

  As the wedding begins, I slip Dunkin’s pornographic sketch into my purse along with my pantyhose and panties.

  The wedding is strangely comical. My mother walks down the aisle arm-in-arm, each of her precious sons flanking her. She beams, a vision in ivory, looking every bit as beautiful as if she herself were getting married today. My father trails behind them, whispering instructions to a wayward flower girl who can’t seem to figure out rose petal distribution philosophy and is dumping handful after handful of flower petals onto the floor too early in her journey toward the altar and is left staring into an empty basket by the time she has gone halfway down the aisle. Dad scoops her up and carries her the rest of the way down the aisle with a flourish as her lower lip starts to quiver. He deposits her into the arms of an unknown woman in the front row of the bride’s side who whisks her away wordlessly before she can start to cry. I assume the woman is the little girl’s mother and somehow related to Tiffany or April. Good old Dad, I think. Crisis averted. A screaming, crying six-year-old might have put a damper on the ceremony. At least fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen follow, one after the other. I recognize several of my brother’s friends and wonder again at the rationale behind a double wedding. Perhaps, there are tax benefits to that too—double deductions or something. I have no idea.

  When Tiffany and April walk down the aisle together, holding hands, flanked by their fathers on either side, I lean over and whisper into Dunkin’s ear, “Oh, look, it’s an Oreo cookie.”

  Indeed, the black-suited men are sandwiching the white-clad women. Dunkin pokes me in the ribca
ge and bites back the urge to laugh. I bury my head in his shoulder to muffle my own giggles. To the casual observer, it might appear as if I am crying, overjoyed of course by the impending nuptials of my big brothers.

  The ceremony is a strange affair, vows being exchanged in a round-robin of love and adoration. Mercifully, the ordeal doesn’t take too long. Receptions are the best part of weddings and, within an hour, upon the synchronized kissing of the brides, we are released to go to the reception.

  “You’re next,” Mom whispers to me the moment she finds me alone.

  Dunkin has gone up to the bar to fetch us champagne and I am without defense against Vanity Ross’s commentary. I look around wildly for my father, but he too is at the bar, procuring much-needed libations and chatting amiably with my boyfriend.

  “When do you think you and Dunkin might tie-the-knot?”

  “Mother, we’ve only been dating for eight months. We’re not even living together. Let’s just be happy for John and William. It’s their day.”

  “True. They’re so handsome. And don’t Tiffany and April look beautiful today?”

  “They do.”

  “Tiffany lost two pounds,” Mom beams proudly. “If you ever get engaged, you should ask her for her diet plan. She looks fabulous! Doesn’t she? Simply breathtaking.”

  I nod my agreement.

  So my brother’s fiancée went from being a size two to a size zero. I nod again as if I have the desire or the capacity to subsist on lettuce and rice cakes. If I did try her meal plan, I’d likely become the worst ever Bridezilla and Dunkin would leave me before we ever got to the altar—either that or I’d die of starvation. Luckily, I am spared from having to comment.

  “There’s my beautiful girl,” Dad arrives at our table and beams down at me. “Care to dance?”

  I do. Dunkin, ever the gentleman, leads my mom out to the floor while Dad twirls me around as if I am a little girl again—standing on his feet as he waltzes me around the living room. I am lost in my own joy, excited to be dancing with my dad, when someone taps me softly on the shoulder. It’s the minister—an imposing figure with piercing green eyes and a disapproving grimace.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Ross, but your vehicle is parked behind mine and the valets need to move it. I’ve been called away.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh, okay. I’ll come move it.”

  “No need,” says the minister. “Where are your keys?”

  “Over there, in my purse.” I point to my abandoned chair, my purse strap hanging lazily across it, as I turn back toward my father.

  Suddenly, I realize my folly. It is too late. The minister is three long strides ahead of me on his way to my handbag.

  “I’ll get it!” I yell after him.

  But, he is already at my chair, taking my purse from its perch. My words and my feeble attempt to wrestle the bag from his grasp startle him. We struggle for a moment before he lets go, sending the contents of my purse flying. Out tumble my stockings, the lace thong, Dunkin’s pornographic drawing, which lands (open) at the minister’s feet, and several prophylactics.

  He picks up my underwear by the waistband, wriggling his nose disgustedly at my panties, and hands me the offending undergarments along with the (upon closer inspection) incredibly-detailed drawing. I turn bright red, thank him, and then stuff everything back into my purse.

  Wordlessly, the minister holds out his hand as I deposit the keys into his outstretched palm. As if I couldn’t be any more mortified, my dad, who has rushed over to help, picks up one of the three condoms that have fallen at my feet and hands it to me. Dad is beet red. Neither he nor I say a word and we simultaneously cast our respective gazes toward the floor then pretend that nothing at all is wrong even though we continue to avoid eye-contact.

  Once everything is restored to its right order and Dunkin and I are back on the dance floor, I look up at my boyfriend quizzically.

  “What are condoms doing in my purse?”

  “I usually keep them in my wallet, but I can’t wear a wallet with this suit so I slipped them in there along with some cash and a packet of Altoids.”

  “Oh,” I say stupidly.

  “It could be worse,” he points out.

  “How, exactly, could this situation be any more embarrassing? My dad and the minister and about a dozen other people saw my panties, our condoms, and your rendition of our naked activities.”

  “Hey, if I had my way, you and I would’ve disappeared off into a coatroom for a quickie. At least they didn’t catch us in the act. Besides, my drawing is art. It’s beautiful.”

  “Okay, Picasso,” I laugh, as I pull him closer and we sway together to the music.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “What, exactly, are we doing here?”

  Brice, Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, Carlo, Dunkin, Marlene, and I are at a modern art exhibit at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Center City. Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, and Carlo are close friends of Brice and mine. We’ve known each other for years and are an incredibly close-knit group. Since getting into a relationship, I’ve seen less of my friends—not for any real reason except that my newfound love has left me with less available time. My friends are always ragging on me to come out with them. So, I’ve obliged. Reluctantly. I’m not exactly an art-lover. Artistic nuance is lost on me. My guilty conscience, and desire to see the crew, win out however and I’ve allowed myself to be dragged to this exhibit.

  For some reason, my friends have suddenly decided that infusing some culture into our lives will be good for us. And, while I agree, I simply don’t get modern art.

  “Who is the artist?” I ask again for the umpteenth time while staring at an upended garbage can which has been spray-painted with elaborate, obscene graffiti. Cutout images of male and female private parts adorn the garbage can and a headless Styrofoam figure lays prostrate on the floor in front of said can. The piece is entitled, “White Trash World.”

  Carlo laughs. “Shayla, we tell you, you forget. We tell you again, you forget again. Do you really even care?”

  “No,” I say honestly. “All this pretentiousness—this art imitating art, imitating life—crap is lost on me.”

  “Me too,” Leslie says. “I feel like I should be drunk or high to understand this piece. Like this stuff was made for a bad acid trip.”

  “Or made by someone on a bad acid trip,” I agree.

  We are joking, of course. My friends are as straight-laced as I am. None of us have even the slightest idea what it’d be like to be on acid.

  “I dunno,” Brice says. “I kind of like it. It’s enticing.”

  I am perplexed by this sudden demonstration of artistic interest until I notice that Brice is not actually looking at the art but at an attractive, clearly gay, art enthusiast. The man is standing, spellbound in front of a piece entitled “Vaginal Vacuum,” which is an elaborately constructed, oversized replication of the lower extremities of the female anatomy with a vacuum cleaner in the place where the clitoris ought to be. I groan.

  “A gay guy who is into vaginas? Really, Brice? I think you’re asking for trouble.”

  “I think I’m asking for a date.”

  I wasn’t aware that my best friend had once again abandoned his dating diet, but I’m not surprised by his lack of willpower. Despite my jokes, the art patron is pretty delectable. Besides, I’m glad Brice has apparently decided to go back on the market instead of letting himself be dragged back into Robin’s web of lust and lies. Now, there’s a potential art piece! We could call it “Penile Penetration” and it would involve an image of Brice worshipping at the altar of Robin’s manhood. Only, instead of a penis, Robin’s male member would be replaced by a fire hose thereby signifying the fire in Robin’s loins and Brice’s unquenchable sexual thirst, his need for Robin to both ignite and extinguish his fire.
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  Apparently, I missed my calling as an artist. A man I do not know, clad in black slacks and a pretentious turtleneck, approaches me and gestures expansively around the room.

  “Magnificent, don’t you think?”

  “In what way?” I ask.

  “The commentary. What the work says about Western culture. About the idiocy of American consumerism, about life.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We are kind of idiots. I mean, we call this stuff art and really all it is is one artist’s mental masturbation, his attempts to shock us with this untalented, insignificant pile of stuff. I don’t know why anyone thinks this crap is art.”

  The stranger looks flabbergasted, but he says nothing as I walk back over to my friends.

  “What was he saying to you?” Brice asks excitedly as he hurries back to us. “I got that guy’s number. Yay! Isn’t he cute?”

  We all start to look just as Brice is hissing at us not to look. I chuckle.

  “Can we get out of here?” Dunkin asks. “I don’t get this stuff.”

  “Me neither,” I say.

  “None of us do,” Louis agrees.

  “No one does,” Leslie echoes her brother’s sentiments.

  “I dunno,” I say. “That guy back there who was talking to me seemed to get whatever it is that the rest of us are missing. He seemed to honestly be impressed by that crap,” I gesture at the man who is now scowling at me and my friends as we walk toward the exit.

  Brice’s face turns white, his eyes open-wide, horrified. “Shayla, you didn’t tell that guy the art was crap did you?”

  “Of course I did,” I say. “It’s stupid and I said so.”

  “Shayla, the man in there is Vladimir Stoyavski, the artist. You just insulted his work.”

  Thankfully, we are outside and, even though I am mortified, I’m relieved at not having to face the man whose art I just told to his face I thought was idiotic and overrated. Thank God, he didn’t throw his vaginal vacuum cleaner at me or anything.