I can only stare at her after that bonkers train of thought. My expression must read clearly because she immediately blushes, a bright pink stain filling her cheeks.
"I know. I'm stupid. I read all these books and watch these movies and sometimes I have trouble distinguishing real life from fiction."
I take the keys from Ophelia and unlock the door. I then step aside to let her in first. As she's talking about her fantasy life, it occurs to me that I should probably pick her up and carry her over the threshold like they do in the movies.
But I wouldn't want to give her the wrong idea.
The idea that I liked how she felt in my arms and how her lips felt on mine.
That would not be the right idea to be perpetuating.
No matter how true it is.
"Yes, well none of that's real, you know."
Ophelia flops down on her ugly couch. "I know. I think it's why I'm always disappointed. Men never live up to the movies. Love isn't like the songs."
I take off my tie and shrug out of my suit coat. My feet are pinched from my wingtips. Dressing up is for the birds. "Depends on which songs. Some songs hit the nail on the head." I listen to a lot of music while running and traveling. "Be right back, I've got to take this suit off."
I grab my shorts and T-shirt, and after a visit to the bathroom, I feel much more like myself. As I return to the living room, Ophelia's disappeared, so I set to work re-inflating the air mattress.
The first priority tomorrow, after getting ahold of Tony, is to find an apartment with two bedrooms. This is bloody ridiculous.
Ophelia returns, her hair still in its fancy style, but her face devoid of makeup and her dress replaced by her oversized shirt and ratty flannel pajamas. Somehow it does nothing to diminish her appearance. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of wine and a bottle of beer. She holds the bottle out to me and I take it.
"Cheers!" I say, holding it up for a toast. "Another toast. Now it's a proper wedding. To us."
Ophelia laughs but clinks her glass against my drink. "Well, we didn't have a proper wedding. No cake, no dance, no bouquet toss."
No wedding night.
I shake my head to rid it of that intrusive thought. Ophelia, the saint that she is, did not sign on for a horndog harassing her simply because he finds her bum attractive.
It is, by the way. Cute and round. She's curvy in all the right places. Soft and feminine.
She reaches over to the flowers that lie on the coffee table. She picks them up and tosses them over her shoulder toward the kitchen. The cat scurries after them.
"There. One more thing to cross off the list, and then my dream is complete." Her voice is flat, and I can't help but feel immense regret and remorse that I prevented her dream.
"Surely, it's more about the marriage than the wedding day." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could snatch them back in. This is reason number one why I prefer being on the field. I don't have to speak. I don't have to say the wrong thing. I just play. "You know what I mean."
"Well, no one's writing a love song about us, that's for sure." Then she looks as if she's been struck by lightning. She jumps up and scurries over to her desk where she pulls out that purple notebook and hastily scrawls something down.
When she's done, I ask, "What was that about?"
Her gaze drops to the floor. "Oh, nothing. I just thought about something and I didn't want to forget it. Something I'm supposed to do for work tomorrow. You know, work. Like a work thing."
Her babbling makes me think it's anything but work, but it's not really my business in any regard.
She returns to the couch, tucking her fuzzy-sock-clad feet up underneath her until she's folded into an impossibly small ball. "It's a good thing we didn't have to do a dance or anything. It's not like we have a song."
Ah, she's back to the wedding thing. I think this has bothered her more than she let on. "I'm sure we could come up with a proper one. What's a love song that you like?"
She takes a sip of her wine, considering my question. "Um, what about 'Need You Now' by Lady Antebellum?"
I can't remember the song so I pull it up on my phone. Sure, the piano, in the beginning, is pretty and haunting, but as soon as Hillary Scott starts singing, the song comes flooding back. "No."
"No?" she asks.
