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There’s an anticipated knock at my apartment door, only four minutes past Foster’s estimated arrival. He never disappoints when it comes to punctuality.
I’ve been back in town for almost three whole days, and I don’t miss the sunshine, the boat, or all that comes in the expectant package of spending a holiday with my parents.
After the formal Christmas with our longtime friends, we all parted ways. The Beauchamps headed back to France, Gerard took a flight north to New York for what he’d claimed to be a business trip, and my parents began the next part of their journey to Madrid. I packed my bags and flew home to the quiet campus where many of the students were still on break with their loved ones, including all of my friends.
The silence was a welcome friend when I first returned from the angst surrounding my family. While the trip on the surface was easy, it left a bad taste in my mouth. Gerard’s sudden news about his upcoming engagement and the unsettling knowledge that our parents will not likely embrace it has left me feeling a little…funky and flustered.
So, when Foster texted me earlier today, inquiring if I was back in town, I was thrilled by the idea of having some company, a distraction. Foster is a good one. My fingers dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring. As a formality, he and I exchanged a few words in greeting, got down to the nitty-gritty, decided we were both losers with no friends in town—other than each other—and now have plans to watch a movie this evening. Of course, I asked if that was code for ripping off my clothes and sticking it in. He sarcastically replied that he had no idea what I was talking about.
As the sound of a second knock echoes through the walls, I pick up the play prop from the counter and proceed toward the door.
I call out, “Just a second.”
With my heart racing, I’m excited to actually have human contact after days of solitude.
I hold the fake mustache on a stick to my upper lip and open the door.
Foster is dressed in a canvas jacket and a beanie due to the snow, and his glasses are fogged from the balminess of the apartment building’s air.
He gazes upon me with confusion when he notices my prop. “What is that?” he asks.
The sound of his familiar voice steadies my pounding heart.
“I mustache you a question,” I state in a serious machismo voice.
“Okay…”
“Are you ready for the greatest night of your life?”
“I’m not so sure. Are you going to be wearing that?”
“Maybe. I’ve been told that men like a curly mustache.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of lip hair that’s being referenced.”
“Are you saying it might be something else?”
He tightens his mouth, trying not to laugh. “Think about it.”
My mind goes over what he’s trying to insinuate. It only takes me a few moments before it clicks that he’s made a joke about cunnilingus.
“Damn, you’re naughty sometimes.” I shake my head and lower the mustache.
“Just trying to stay ahead of the game with you.”
“Good luck with that. Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
Stepping aside, I allow Foster to enter my apartment. He sets down a small bag at his feet, and then he proceeds to take off his coat and hat. Like any good hostess, I hang his things and then show him in. This is the first time he’s ever been here, seeing that we usually go to his place. I just thought it was safer to avoid confrontation and questions from Chandra. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Foster or what we have going on, but it’s easier not to put a label on it for others. Plus, he lives alone, so his apartment makes more sense for our trysts. There, we’re less likely to disturb anyone while doing the bump and grind.
“Drink?” I ask, leading him through the living area toward the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he responds absently, his eyes wandering over the walls of the apartment. “Nice place. It’s…colorful.”
“Thanks.” Opening the fridge, I say, “We have beer, soda, beer, chick wine, wine coolers—who the hell brought those over? Beer, water, prune juice…” I peek over the door, chuckling at his inquisitive look. “Don’t ask. Beer…and—”
“Let me guess. Beer?”
