I'm gonna need a shit ton of advil after this, I tell myself as my sore muscles strain to lift my irregularly tiny frame up the stairs. Why do I have to live on the eighth floor?
That's what they don't tell you about working out: it hurts like hell the next day.
Jenna kept telling me it would get better. After a while it will stop hurting. I asked her when that will be.
My cynical mind kept thinking of the best ways to murder my bike during spin class. But I was too tired afterwards to even imagine lifting it–that's the conspiracy.
Andy's making tacos in the kitchen. Figures; it's Tuesday. I might be tired and cranky, but the smell of those delicious tacos makes me smile.
Stop it. You're supposed to be in a bad mood, remember? I remind myself.
Andy's the kind of guy you see staring at an abstract painting for twenty minutes before you realize he's actually fallen asleep. He wears fedoras and printed pants but somehow makes it work.
I met him in a nightclub. Weird, I know. I'm not one for the nightclub scene. Too many variables.
I flop onto the couch and kick my shoes off one at a time. Andy's dancing in the kitchen. I don't know what he's listening to. He dances over and takes my shoes to the front door.
I'm a terrible person, I tell myself. I don't deserve him.
He asks me how my day went. I tell him it hurt. I don't tell him he's messed up the words again, I knew what he meant.
I wander into the kitchen and check dinner's progress. I guess it's five minutes, maybe ten, away from ready. I have time for a quick shower.
Andy's gone off into his office for a second, so I scribble him a quick note telling him my plan. I slip it under the speaker. I debate if it's cruel irony or not.
The shower is warm and inviting. I want to stand under the stream for ages. Maybe my legs will magically calm down and I can stand up without wincing. I laugh at myself: fat chance.
Out of the shower, I hurriedly dry myself and dress in sweatpants and a t-shirt. I have no way of knowing if dinner's ready.
My mother used to tell me I had the worst sense of time she'd ever known.
My mother exaggerated a lot.
Andy's sitting at the dining room table. He's gotten out the candle sticks and lit them without burning the apartment down. I give him a face: what's all this for?
He grins and pulls my chair out for me. He pours me a glass of wine. I motion for him to stop, otherwise he'll fill it nearly to the top.
I help myself to ground beef, cheese, lettuce, and salsa. Somehow Andy's procured a ripe avocado. I thought I'd eaten them all.
We eat in silence. I forgot how hard it was to eat tacos and communicate at the same time.
I can't hear him, and he'll never understand me.