A thick fog laid heavy on my conscious following the deed. It was a mixture of apathy and guilt, and I had a lot of trouble falling asleep that night. All of this despite the fact that it was close to 3:30 a.m., I had work in four hours, and I was already starting to feel the lingering effects from four or possibly five shots of Rumplemintz.
Tuesday night is not usually a day you’ll find me out at a bar. But seeing as I hadn’t had cable installed and I was in the mood to watch some college basketball, I thought I’d mosey over to a watering hole some two blocks from my apartment. Two, maybe three Two Hearted’s tops and I’d be back in bed by 10:00 p.m. at the latest. This, obviously didn’t happen for two reasons:
1. I don’t have a lot of self-control.
2. Upon arriving at said bar, a close friend happened to be sitting there, chatting up what I thought were two girls in their mid-20s.
It is the humble opinion of this narrator that this is not just something that happened. This cannot be one of those things. This, please, cannot be that.
I believe in cosmic fate. I believe in karma, coincidence, and aliens. And when I pulled up a stool next to my friend and began the dance that is talking with two strange women, I knew I was in for a ride.
Phoebe, a brunette with a mouth that would make a fish jealous, had already punched her ticket on the Blackout Express with my aforementioned friend. They had been there for an hour already, and Phoebe’s friend Melissa had only just arrived. Melissa was of short stature, with hair that was died a deep and clearly fake red. Not usually my type, but I’m not particularly picky if we’re being completely honest.
And so I began to lay the groundwork. In between shots of Rumplemintz that my friend insisted on buying, I learned that Melissa was 31 years old and in the process of getting a divorce. She called me names like “child,” “dickhead,” and “chode” for the better part of two hours. But right around that two-hour mark, Melissa and I found ourselves alone. Phoebe and my friend? They had flown the coop, and I realized in that moment I only had one choice. It was time, my friends, for the drunk make-out. Five minutes later, we were outside the bar holding hands and walking towards my newly rented apartment. To say that this woman was anything less than a dragon would be an insult. We twisted. We turned. We contorted our bodies in ways I would have never thought were possible. And even though I think I have a torn hamstring as a result of it, I don’t regret it for a second. Where this story becomes sordid is during pillow talk.
“Can I have your number?”
“Yeah, but you can’t text me. My husband reads all of my text messages and it’s too risky for you.”
“So what do you suggest we do to communicate?”
“I’ll text you on Snapchat. Let’s get together this weekend.”
While many of you would qualify this as a huge red flag, my initial thought was that this was awesome. It got less awesome the more sober that I became. And as I walked Melissa to the front door, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was a little off. I said my goodbyes and promised to add her on Snapchat as soon as humanly possible. From the other room, I heard the distinct noise of my phone letting me know that I had a new text message. It was my friend from the bar, and I knew by the length of the message that it was going to be bad.
Get that girl out of your apartment ASAP. She’s very much married and definitely has a kid. Phoebe says her husband is looney tunes.
So here’s where we’re at as Friday approaches. Is Melissa really in the process of getting divorced or am I just a lowly home-wrecker? We’ll find out this weekend, I guess. .