“Good God,” I muttered.
A firefighter broke the outer glass wall of my neighborhood Duane Reade and black smoke billowed out. A few men barreled into the building after him.
“Fuck this fucking fuck of a Monday!” a woman wearing a pharmacist’s coat shouted. “Dammit, Dave.”
“It wasn’t me!” a man—Dave, I had to presume—whined.
She smacked his shoulder hard enough that he recoiled. “You put your Egg McMuffin in the microwave again, didn’t you?”
“It was cold by the time I got to work.”
“You have to take the wrapper off,” she cried. “We tell you every fucking day, Dave!No wrappers!”
I made a careful retreat and walked a few blocks uptown to a CVS. I grabbed a hand basket at the front doors and began perusing the aisles. It was a shame about Dave, because that Duane Reade had beenmy store.
Let me explain. There were nearly nine million of us living in this city, and the average New Yorker walked anywhere between two and five miles a day simply to and from work. When calculating in the necessity of errands, there’s suddenly a benefit to having a drugstore and Starbucks on every block. And once you foundthatstore—distance and stock taken into account—it became yours. You were suddenly a points-using member. You knew where every single item was. You knew which employee to get at checkout who wouldn’t give you a hard time. It wasyourstore.
And Dave had set my store on fire.
So it took twice as long to find what I needed at this not-my-store, only to realize they were out of stock on paper towels, dish soap, and Calvin’s preferred brand of razor. I spent ten minutes comparing available alternatives, trying to decide on a replacement. I didn’t use manual razors, so what the hell did I know. If I went cheap, I’d undoubtedly be the cause of a cut-up face. If I went expensive, I was probably paying for marketing. Ultimately, I chose the expensive route. It seemed safer.
I dug the list out of my pocket.Got that, out of stock, out of stock, got that, got—no, wait. I left the personal grooming and wandered into the next aisle—sexual wellness. When Calvin had given me the requests last night, I’d pointed out that I seemed to buy condoms or lube more than I did candy, which I felt said something.
Calvin had slid his hands into his pockets and said, looking down at me where I sat on the couch with my laptop, “Are you complaining?”
“Making an observation.”
“We can tone it down.”
“Okay, but, hang on—”
“Just blowjobs.”
I’d made a face and asked, “To clarify, you’re threatening me with blowjobs, correct?”
“If you stopped buying the little bottles,” Calvin continued, “lube wouldn’t be a weekly purchase, like eggs and coffee creamer.”
“Let me head out to Costco and buy a bucket of lube.”
“With an industrial pump,” Calvin agreed.
I’d narrowed my eyes and studied his flat expression. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
Calvin leaned down, wrapped a big hand around my throat, and gave a little squeeze. “Buy another two-ounce bottle again and I promise you’ll find out.”
“My ass is still recovering from last night.”
“Mine’s just fine.” Calvin straightened, and walking toward the kitchen, had called over his shoulder, “And if we weren’t out of lube, I could have had a deep-dicking tonight.”
I shook myself, shoved the paper into my coat pocket, and walked midway down the aisle to what was an almost-empty shelf. “Oh, come on,” I whispered. I bent down to read the remaining labels.
Wet and Juicy Watermelon-Flavored Lube.
Fertility Buddy! Provides Antioxidant Support to Sperm.
Female Stimulation Serum—Not a Personal Lubricant.
Jesus Christ.
