It had to have been less than ten seconds between when we finished and when he jumped out of bed bee-lining towards his Prada shoes. Just a few hours before, we'd stepped out into the snowy streets of Wicker Park dressed to the nines for what promised to be a fabulous night on the town. Unfortunately, the sidewalks had recently been salted to melt the snow that refused to do so on its own. Chicago’s persistently frigid temperatures at that time of year make it almost impossible for anything not to remain frozen, but I digress...
One can really only speculate about when the idea of salt on his shiny new Prada loafers first started to bother him. As we hopped into the cab? During our first champagne toast? All the way through dinner? Our rushed dessert?
As I watched him from bed diligently removing any and all traces of salt from his loafers, I couldn't figure out what stunned me more. That he was obviously thinking about his Pradas while we were having sex or that he was neglecting to wipe off the salt from my own new (and gorgeous, I might add), Stuart Weitzman heels. I mean they were sitting right there next to his, how hard would it have been? It seems to me that if you're experiencing borderline paranoia about the possible effects of salt on luxury leather, at least be thoughtful enough to attend to all potentially at-risk items in your line of vision. Especially if they belong to the person you just slept with.
While these thoughts were deeply problematic for a variety of reasons, what troubled me the most was that I knew I wasn't going to say anything. I knew it. I never could with him. Instead, I would silently wait for him to come back to bed, hopeful that he'd hold me and that somehow his breath on my neck might distract me from my impending loneliness.
Looking back now, I don't recall that he did. Instead, I think he rolled towards the wall and undoubtedly fell into a peaceful slumber freed from the fear of corroding Prada. I lay there awake, alert to my numbness and patiently waiting for the relief of morning when he'd fly back home, and I'd begin again to try again.
