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Morgan didn’t know what she had been thinking.
It was Friday night and she was standing in her kitchen doorway, sipping from a glass of Burgundy she had just poured, staring across the living room to her foyer, which was currently filled with at least ten flat packs from Ikea.
Not more than a quarter of an hour ago, Naomi had left. She had a date, apparently, which Morgan was happy about. Her best friend had been single for too long; hopefully this new woman would be a keeper.
After school this afternoon, Morgan and Naomi had driven to San Diego in Naomi’s SUV to shop at Ikea. They had spent three hours in the store, finally wheeling out two carts full of large boxes and which they could barely steer properly because they were so heavy. Somehow, they had navigated the carts to Naomi’s truck without crashing into anything else and then somehow, they had gotten all the purchases stuffed into the SUV for the drive back to Carlsbad, even though doing so required both women recalling ancient Tetris skills. Naomi even made a crack about how all the straight women who were in the parking lot with their husbands had it easy because they had men to help them.
Once back in town, Naomi had helped Morgan unload her items and then left for her date.
Now, Morgan was faced with spending her weekend putting together everything she had bought, and it made her gulp down some more wine.
On most other matters, typical gender stereotypes angered Morgan and she was impatient with people who perpetuated them. Women were bad drivers, was one which particularly irked her. Another was that women talk on the phone too much. But there was one stereotype which Morgan had to admit applied to her: Morgan was a woman who was absolute crap at building things. Even simple stuff from Ikea.
She couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t as if Ikea sold, say, DIY fission reactors. No. They sold furniture. What’s more, Ikea provided each and every customer printed instructions on how to build each item. Not only that, but the instructions didn’t even contain words! Ikea had managed to dumb down the steps needed to put together their furniture to the point where words were no longer needed, just pictures presented by some silly cartoon character. Yet each and every time she needed to build something from Ikea, Morgan managed to screw up the process along the way until she was always left holding a whozit or a whatzit in her hands, wondering where on earth it was supposed to go. And when she finally got whatever it was together, she was certain it had taken her four times longer than a normal person.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Morgan muttered, still staring at the boxes, which she was certain were mocking her. “A man would be helpful right about now.”
She considered calling Clint but it just seemed too soon after the debacle of Sunday night. Other Y-chromosome-bearing friends were either married, which meant trying to convince wives that she wasn’t luring their men over for sex by using Ikea furniture as bait; or single, which meant trying to convince them that she wasn’t luring them over for sex by using Ikea furniture as bait.
But she needed somebody to help with this! She had bought a glass door cabinet, an entryway coat rack and organizer, an end table for the sofa and a console table. Her only hope for getting all of it assembled before the next solar eclipse was to take a leave of absence from work, eat one meal a day and eliminate such time-wasters as bathing and sleeping.
“Fuck it,” she sighed. She’d call Clint. Maybe seeing him display such masculine usefulness would get her over whatever the hell it was that stopped her from having sex with him the other night.
Just as she lifted her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, it chirped.
She smiled when she saw that it was a text from Chloë.
Ever since their…well, whatever their meeting for ice cream was on Tuesday, the two women had been texting each other regularly throughout the days and nights. Privately, Morgan had had to admit to herself that every time her phone pinged now, she hoped it was Chloë. In fact, the thought had crossed her mind on Wednesday night that perhaps she should assign Chloë a special ringtone, but she had stopped herself, believing that doing so carried with it…implications. After all, none of her other female friends—even Naomi—had a special ringtone.
Sup?
Morgan typed her response immediately.
Lamenting recent life choices.
LOL! What’s his name?
Mr. Ikea, the inventor of furniture which requires helpless women like me to put together.
Morgan then snapped a photo of the collection of boxes in her foyer and sent it to Chloë.
For a few minutes, she received no reply. She wondered briefly if Chloë was at work until she remembered Chloë telling her last night that she was working the morning shift today. As it was now just after seven p.m., Chloë should be free.
Right when Morgan was chastising herself for standing there like an idiot, waiting for her phone to ping, it did.
Want help?
Morgan bit her bottom lip, staring at the two little words. The fact was, she did want to see Chloë again.
I can’t ask you to do that! I’m sure putting together furniture is not how you want to spend your Friday night!
This time, the response came instantly.
I actually love putting together Ikea stuff!!
Lol!! You are such a liar! No one likes this!
I mean it! There’s something calming about it.
