So here's another short part of a short story. I know it's not finished, but I hope you enjoy.
-AP
(PART ONE)
Everyone makes mistakes. That's what they tell you when you're a kid. When you were learning how to ride a bike and you toppled over, even with those training wheels attached. That time you accidentally wet yourself during recess in kindergarden. At five years old when you were trying to give your dog a haircut and snipped off a piece of her ear.
Everyone makes mistakes.
What they don't tell you is that those mistakes stay with you for the rest of your life. You still have the scar on your right knee from falling. Any friends who you still talk to from way back when still remember you standing next to the monkey bars with your pants soaking wet, balling your eyes out. And the dog, now on it's last leg, still hesitates to come near you when you go out to visit the folks.
Everyone makes mistakes, alright.
Time stops, and this is what pops in my head as Paul's fist rockets toward my face. But I mean, come on. How was I supposed to know that Paul and Chloe had been dating for the past 11 months? How was I supposed to know that Paul had had an engagement ring in his pocket, waiting for just the right moment to pop the question to her tonight? And more importantly, how was I supposed to know that Chloe was going to tell him that we'd slept together last week?
Now I know what you're thinking: that I'm a douche bag, that I should have known all those things, and that, maybe, I deserve the clenched fist that's currently hurtling in my direction. Well, you might not be entirely wrong. But in any case, I'll have to get back to you on that. I think I've put this off for as long as I can...
THUMP... THUD.
Ok... definitely don't think I deserved that one... Dammit, that hurts... On the plus side, now that I'm sprawled out on the floor, pretending to be knocked out in order to save my skin, I have a few minutes to explain myself.
So first off, I'd never even met Chloe or Paul until the night her and I slept together... Ok, wait, that sounds bad. Look, I'm not usually the type for one-night stands, but honestly, if you'd have seen Chloe that night, I guarantee you would have done the same thing. I first saw her out on the dance floor at McGuinty's Pub. I had just walked in the door. The flashing blue and red lights seemed to be focused directly on her. I could see her curvy figure, her long, dark hair, her brightly colored tattoos across her chest.
Instantly I knew I had to meet this girl. So even though I just walked in and I'm dry as a bone, I make my way across the dance floor towards the bathroom. I was planning on dancing with her. Hell, I probably wouldn't have even worked up the nerve to talk to, or even smile at her. But, as luck would have it, next thing I know, I'm more than half way through the mob of sweaty, half-naked bodies when an hand grabs my arm and pulls me back. I turn, and it's Chloe.
"Where you off to in such a hurry?" she yells over the throbbing bass. I freeze up for a second or two.
"Uh... I was...uh..." I stammer.
"Well, it must not have been that important then, huh?" she says. She pulls me closer towards her and starts to dance with me. I stand there like the rhythm-less, 20-something, white male I am. She laughs and smiles, and I fucking fall to pieces. She starts to grind on me, which is a move most experienced barroom-dancer girls will do when they find themselves an interesting partner who can't dance to save his life. This goes on for a song or two. Then I lean in to her.
"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask when the music dies down in between songs.
"Sure," she says. She takes my hand and leads me through the crowd towards the bar. It's crowded, but she wiggles in between a group of over-dressed sorority-types and a group of drunken neanderthals. I've always hated going to college bars.
She puts one arm around mine and waves to the bartender with her free hand. The bartender, a muscular guy with full-sleeve tattoos and a rockabilly pompadour looks over at us and scowls. I assumed it was because bartenders are usually abrasive towards their more aggressive clientele. He walks over to where we're standing and leans over the bar, grimacing. His eyes go back and forth between mine and hers.
"We'd like a sex on the beach, and..." she trails off and looks up at me.
"Jack and Coke,' I say. "A double. Straight."
"So that's how it's gonna be?" the bartender asks, still looking back and forth between Chloe and I. Before I can ask him what he means, she cuts in.
"Well if he wanted it on the rocks, he would have said so," she replies. I figure that's a fair response. The bartender huffs away and gets our drinks, slamming down bottles and glasses as he goes. Chloe watches him the whole time.
"So what's your name?" I ask.
"Chloe," she says without looking at me. Then silence.
"Um, well I'm-" I'm cut off by the bartender practically smashing our drinks in front of us. I hand him my credit card. He swipes it from my hand, takes it to the register and returns shortly with a receipt for me to sign. I tip him two dollars.
"Thanks, Paul," Chloe says, taking me by the arm and sipping out of her drink through a straw. She leads me back towards the dance floor.
"Friend of yours?" I ask.
"Not exactly," she says. She stops walking, so I stop, too. She downs her drink in one gulp, puts her glass down on the nearest table, and then stands directly in front of me. My back is towards the bar.
"Thanks for the drink," she says. She grabs me by the neck and pulls me down into a deep, wet kiss. Her hands starts rubbing the shaggy, brown hair on the back on my head. After about 10 seconds go by and I realize my heart is, in fact, still beating, I open my eyes and see that her eyes are open, too, but she's not looking at me. Her eyes bolt back to mine and we stop kissing. She smiles.
"Let's get out of here," she says. Before I can answer, she's got me by the hand again, but this time she's leading me towards the door. I feel almost like one of those 5 year olds you see being dragged the mall around by their moms on one of those kiddie leashes. As we go out the door, I look over my shoulder to see the bartender hunched over the bar, gritting his teeth, staring right at me.
You can probably guess what happens next
So initially, yes, I probably should have put two and two together and noticed that something was off about the whole situation. But I mean, come on. Can you really say that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing?
-AP
(PART ONE)
Everyone makes mistakes. That's what they tell you when you're a kid. When you were learning how to ride a bike and you toppled over, even with those training wheels attached. That time you accidentally wet yourself during recess in kindergarden. At five years old when you were trying to give your dog a haircut and snipped off a piece of her ear.
Everyone makes mistakes.
What they don't tell you is that those mistakes stay with you for the rest of your life. You still have the scar on your right knee from falling. Any friends who you still talk to from way back when still remember you standing next to the monkey bars with your pants soaking wet, balling your eyes out. And the dog, now on it's last leg, still hesitates to come near you when you go out to visit the folks.
Everyone makes mistakes, alright.
Time stops, and this is what pops in my head as Paul's fist rockets toward my face. But I mean, come on. How was I supposed to know that Paul and Chloe had been dating for the past 11 months? How was I supposed to know that Paul had had an engagement ring in his pocket, waiting for just the right moment to pop the question to her tonight? And more importantly, how was I supposed to know that Chloe was going to tell him that we'd slept together last week?
Now I know what you're thinking: that I'm a douche bag, that I should have known all those things, and that, maybe, I deserve the clenched fist that's currently hurtling in my direction. Well, you might not be entirely wrong. But in any case, I'll have to get back to you on that. I think I've put this off for as long as I can...
THUMP... THUD.
Ok... definitely don't think I deserved that one... Dammit, that hurts... On the plus side, now that I'm sprawled out on the floor, pretending to be knocked out in order to save my skin, I have a few minutes to explain myself.
So first off, I'd never even met Chloe or Paul until the night her and I slept together... Ok, wait, that sounds bad. Look, I'm not usually the type for one-night stands, but honestly, if you'd have seen Chloe that night, I guarantee you would have done the same thing. I first saw her out on the dance floor at McGuinty's Pub. I had just walked in the door. The flashing blue and red lights seemed to be focused directly on her. I could see her curvy figure, her long, dark hair, her brightly colored tattoos across her chest.
Instantly I knew I had to meet this girl. So even though I just walked in and I'm dry as a bone, I make my way across the dance floor towards the bathroom. I was planning on dancing with her. Hell, I probably wouldn't have even worked up the nerve to talk to, or even smile at her. But, as luck would have it, next thing I know, I'm more than half way through the mob of sweaty, half-naked bodies when an hand grabs my arm and pulls me back. I turn, and it's Chloe.
"Where you off to in such a hurry?" she yells over the throbbing bass. I freeze up for a second or two.
"Uh... I was...uh..." I stammer.
"Well, it must not have been that important then, huh?" she says. She pulls me closer towards her and starts to dance with me. I stand there like the rhythm-less, 20-something, white male I am. She laughs and smiles, and I fucking fall to pieces. She starts to grind on me, which is a move most experienced barroom-dancer girls will do when they find themselves an interesting partner who can't dance to save his life. This goes on for a song or two. Then I lean in to her.
"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask when the music dies down in between songs.
"Sure," she says. She takes my hand and leads me through the crowd towards the bar. It's crowded, but she wiggles in between a group of over-dressed sorority-types and a group of drunken neanderthals. I've always hated going to college bars.
She puts one arm around mine and waves to the bartender with her free hand. The bartender, a muscular guy with full-sleeve tattoos and a rockabilly pompadour looks over at us and scowls. I assumed it was because bartenders are usually abrasive towards their more aggressive clientele. He walks over to where we're standing and leans over the bar, grimacing. His eyes go back and forth between mine and hers.
"We'd like a sex on the beach, and..." she trails off and looks up at me.
"Jack and Coke,' I say. "A double. Straight."
"So that's how it's gonna be?" the bartender asks, still looking back and forth between Chloe and I. Before I can ask him what he means, she cuts in.
"Well if he wanted it on the rocks, he would have said so," she replies. I figure that's a fair response. The bartender huffs away and gets our drinks, slamming down bottles and glasses as he goes. Chloe watches him the whole time.
"So what's your name?" I ask.
"Chloe," she says without looking at me. Then silence.
"Um, well I'm-" I'm cut off by the bartender practically smashing our drinks in front of us. I hand him my credit card. He swipes it from my hand, takes it to the register and returns shortly with a receipt for me to sign. I tip him two dollars.
"Thanks, Paul," Chloe says, taking me by the arm and sipping out of her drink through a straw. She leads me back towards the dance floor.
"Friend of yours?" I ask.
"Not exactly," she says. She stops walking, so I stop, too. She downs her drink in one gulp, puts her glass down on the nearest table, and then stands directly in front of me. My back is towards the bar.
"Thanks for the drink," she says. She grabs me by the neck and pulls me down into a deep, wet kiss. Her hands starts rubbing the shaggy, brown hair on the back on my head. After about 10 seconds go by and I realize my heart is, in fact, still beating, I open my eyes and see that her eyes are open, too, but she's not looking at me. Her eyes bolt back to mine and we stop kissing. She smiles.
"Let's get out of here," she says. Before I can answer, she's got me by the hand again, but this time she's leading me towards the door. I feel almost like one of those 5 year olds you see being dragged the mall around by their moms on one of those kiddie leashes. As we go out the door, I look over my shoulder to see the bartender hunched over the bar, gritting his teeth, staring right at me.
You can probably guess what happens next
So initially, yes, I probably should have put two and two together and noticed that something was off about the whole situation. But I mean, come on. Can you really say that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing?