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“Yeah, I’m a painter. Landscapes and portraits mostly. Here.” She stretches her hand out so he’ll give the flyer back, and she starts writing something on it. “My number,” she hands back the flyer to Chris. “You know, if you want a sneak peek before the show.” Mandy turns and starts walking back to me. She continues to ogle Chris as he works and brings more furniture in, both of them smiling like fools the entire time it takes the three men to get my apartment furnished.
“Ma’am,” the man who seems to be in charge calls after me, a clipboard in his hands. “Could you please sign here that you received everything you ordered?”
“Sure.” I sign, and the men leave. Mandy looks out onto the street as she watches them go.
“You are shameless,” I say to her jokingly.
She turns and winks at me. “I’m so tapping that ass,” she says, and I laugh.
There’s not much moving around I want to do, so Mandy and I try out the sectional.
“So, you’re an artist?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m an RA, and I work the information desk at the hospital so I can have health insurance, but one day I’ll make a living just from my painting,” she says as she stares dreamily into space.
“I’d love to go to your show too.”
“Well, duh, you are going,” she says and rolls her eyes. “I have to go. Still have half a shift I have to cover.”
“Thanks for everything, Mandy. It’s nice to know someone here.”
Mandy smiles at me. “I’ll see you soon, okay? And hey, think about what I said,” she says while turning the doorknob.
“About what?”
“Have a sexathon tonight, then let your body rest the last two days before treatment starts.”
I throw one of the sofa cushions at her, but it only hits the door after she is on the other side.
After she leaves, I try to remember when was the last time I got some. I’ve been so numb and in shock since my diagnosis. Sex has been the last thing on my mind. I’m lucky not to have some of the more embarrassing symptoms many women in my situation have. Maybe a night of reckless abandon will help me feel alive again.I’m not dead yet, I remind myself. And the furthest thing from the act of dying is the act of lovemaking.
I’ve never had a serious long-term relationship. I mostly lived at the gym. Luckily, Chema’s gym is full of hot men to pick from, and I have a deep bench of booty-call friends I call on when I need to scratch the itch or just relax after hefty training.
I sigh because I have to admit it has been too long, and that bench is oh so very far away in Mexico City. Maybe I could offer to pay for one of them to come here?
No. Not only was that too desperate, but I would lose a day or two before they could get here, and treatment starts in three days. Not to mention a disrespectful use of my sister’s money when she thinks she is sponsoring a future UFC titleholder. Looks like the bar it is.
In the evening,I shower and throw on a pair of faux-leather leggings with a navy-blue silk camisole. My breasts are on the small side, so I feel comfortable skipping a bra and showing a bit of cleavage. I hate wearing high-heels and instead opt for black moto boots that I leave untied and slouchy.
The one girly thing I do enjoy is makeup. I don’t get to wear it often because I’m always training, but now seems like the perfect opportunity to wear it.
I opt for a smokey eye with charcoal-black eyeliner. For the lips, I wear a kissable nude shade just a few shades darker than my tanned natural color to give my face some life.
Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my full figure. Taking in those slim, toned muscles I worked so hard to perfect sends me into an emotional state I wasn’t expecting. I look great, and I know I won’t look this way again for a long time, or maybe even ever. I can’t even begin to imagine the many ways in which my body will change and am so grateful Mandy suggested this so I could enjoy my body—this version of it—one last time. I blink away the tears before they get the chance to ruin my makeup.
Not wanting to take a purse with me, I place my ID and credit card in my back pocket. I secure my apartment key into my boot laces, and I head outside.
I have several options to choose from as I walk down my street. For some inexplicable reason, I walk toward the hospital instead of away from it. I hadn’t noticed the bar precisely across from the emergency room entrance.Smart location, I think.
The door's sign is in a simple font with white LED lights that readsLa Oficina. Looks like I found my bar.
