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His hand hovers in midair, poised to knock when I open the door. Immediately he gives me that slanted smile, the one that generally melts my panties right off. This time, my panties refuse to budge.
“Hey there, Copper Top,” he smirks. I notice the nickname grates on me instead of charming me like usual. “What smells so good? Is that you?”
I open my mouth to answer but then choke the words back as he stumbles into my tiny living room, squinting toward the kitchenette. A waft of pungent herb smell rolls over me.
“Oh, wow, you made dinner,” he sighs vaguely.
“Have you been smoking pot?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Why? You want to turn me in?” he snarks.
“No… It’s just that…” I stammer, totally flummoxed as he pivots from left to right, taking in the mess in the kitchen, the set table, and the bottle of wine.
It’s just that I made you dinner! I scream inwardly. For our date! That you have apparently blown off!
“Are you okay?” he squints at me. “Your cheeks are all red. Have you been cooking?”
“I’ve been—” I start, but the words won’t come out. “Where were you? I thought you got off work at six? Like three hours ago?”
He rocks back a little, pulling an exaggerated grimace. “Where have I been?” he repeats mockingly. “Have I been smoking pot? What are you, my parole officer?”
“Of course not,” I snort. “It’s just that I thought—”
“Why don’t you arrest me, officer?” he continues, walking toward me with his wrists extended as though ready to be handcuffed.
“Ryan, quit it,” I shrug, walking past him.
I snatch the bottle of wine off the table and push it to the back of the counter. For some reason, I don’t feel like letting him open it anymore. Turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean my hips against the kitchen counter to loo
k at him. He is smiling vaguely, twisting in slow-motion toward the television.
“Oh, hey, Scary Movie is on,” he smiles as he shuffles toward the couch. “Hey, you already started. Weren’t we going to watch this together?”
He sits on the sofa and stares at the TV for thirty seconds or so before glancing back up at me. Then his expression changes, and he glances back at the TV, and then back at me.
“Oh, wait, no,” he mumbles to himself as he looks around.
I don’t say anything. I just watch him like he’s my very own TV show, in the scene where the main character realizes her life is a ridiculous lie.
“Oh, shit, Penny,” he sighs. “You made dinner.”
“Yes I did,” I swallow, my mouth dry.
“We had a date tonight,” he says out loud, stupidly.
“Well, we did,” I shrug. “About two hours ago.”
On my personal TV show, the love interest squeegees his reddened eyeballs like a cartoon character with his fists and heaves a sigh. The main character flips through her personal Rolodex of witty things to say, unable to pick one.
“Okay, I’m an asshole,” he finally nods.
In this TV show, I don’t have any stage directions. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I already burnt one half of dinner, and the other half is a solid mass in a colander in the sink. Lettuce leaves are wilted. Bottled salad dressing is now room temperature. The TV screams comically in the background.
I can’t move. I feel completely abandoned. This was supposed to be a really nice night. Now it’s all jacked up, and the person who jacked it up is too high to even try to fix it.
“Well, I should go,” he sighs dramatically, slapping his knees before he stands up.
Despite myself, I am surprised.
