The letdown after the door has closed upon what was supposed to have been the man of your dreams, the cry on the floor by the fridge in your bathrobe missing your old boyfriend, the unnecessary two extra glasses of leftover wine you probably shouldn’t have and will regret come morning, the pathetic perusing of Facebook hoping that one of your friends has left you a happy message ... Ah, the after-date where you shouldn’t have slept with him but did and now he probably won’t remember your witty repertoire, only the fact that there’s no lubricant in the house because it’s been 150 years since you’ve had sex, and only bad girls do it on the first date, so you didn’t plan on slippery sex, anyway.
He’s perfect, of course. PhD, dark, tall, handsome with a British accent to boot. He’s gone now, and it’s you and the cat eating the leftover Greek food you picked at daintily for dinner. Then you dig out the stale pack of cigs you swore off three weeks ago and smoke frantically, thinking that maybe you’ll be the solitary, anguished writer, drunk off her socks, inviting lung cancer with open arms, brilliantly writing at 2 a.m., putting off the ugly, ugly wakeup into the reality of alone again.
It’s been a long time since my body was a wonderland, but it ain’t too bad right now, all things considered. My cat likes me. My friends shoot out concerned and uplifting cyber advice. My heart is still thumping away, waiting for the next onslaught. Cold Greek food tastes pretty good, and at least the Brit left decent vino. I have a soft, warm bed and big, strong pillows to keep me company, and I don’t have to worry about bad morning breath or any other embarrassing bodily functions that might give it away that I am not an immortal goddess. I can wake up and find myself especially cute and fun.
I am Kris and we are just fine, thank you.
