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“You know, the monument was the tallest structure in the world until the Eiffel Tower,” she says, and I chuckle under my breath at the idea of the two countries having a whose dick is bigger? contest. Really makes you wonder what would happen if women ruled the world.
“How do you know that?” Nick asks.
“I remember it from a high school field trip.”
“A recent one?” I ask, and she laughs again, not at all noticing (or minding) the dig. Not that it was meant for her as much as it was for a guy who is much closer to midlife than senior year. Perhaps this Jeep is a symptom of his crisis. And so is the waitress.
“No, I graduated like four years ago,” she offers.
“Did you hear that, Nick?”
“Yes, Olivia,” he drones.
“Clinton was president when she was born,” I add.
He completely ignores me but I hear him say something to her. Something he wants to keep between them. I let it go and lean my head on the box next to me, watching the monument shrink in the distance.
My butt goes numb by the time we make it back to the comedy condo. Never thought I’d actually be relieved to be back at the shabby-ass apartment.
“You go ahead. We’ll be right behind you,” Nick calls back, probably wanting some privacy to whip out his Washington Monument.
Crawling on my knees, I reach for the latch and pop the door open. “You kids be safe,” I say, then slam the door hard.
Inside the condo, it’s quiet but still smells like Snoop Dogg’s crib. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge (one of the few bottles left next to a jar of mystery mayonnaise). Stand-ups really are a special bunch. Strike that—male stand-ups are a special bunch. I wash the cap and head to my room for the night, making sure to lock the door.
By the time I slip on my pj’s and into the double-washed sheets, voices rustle somewhere in the small apartment. The walls in this place don’t provide much privacy. Something D.C. and NYC apartments have in common. My ears tingle at the sound of Nick’s rough muffled voice followed by her giggle. Not like a response-to-a-joke giggle but more of the flirty, precoital variety. Exactly like the giggle Imani made the other night. Who knows how long it’s been since one of those sounds slipped beyond my lips? Well, I know how long it’s been but I’d rather not say because it’s long enough that the most appropriate response would be—Bless your heart.
I sneer with an annoyed grumble, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I’m in no mood to listen to the two of them make the bed rock while the futon bar digs into my back.
After twenty minutes of trying to ignore the faint murmurs of their conversation or whatever they’re doing, I hear the apartment door close. Must be Herb crashing their party. I sniff audibly. No sign of any fresh bud. The place goes quiet, and soon, a single set of footsteps slips past my locked door. The sound of another door closing follows.
Did the waitress leave? Did Nick send her home before things went too far? Hmm, maybe this night isn’t a total disaster.
