to my apartment is a bad time to woo a woman. We all have crushes on women, but things get infinitely more complex when the object of our affection decides to show up randomly at our domiciles.
I swung open the front door wearing a ratty tank top from the 1990s expecting it to be the Fedex guy with my package of recently purchased Family Guy DVDs. And there she was: Beautiful, adorable, and available.
"You wanna watch a movie or something?" she said holding two red envelopes from Netflix. I couldn't turn her away, but my apartment was unprepared for a woman. I picked my poison: I invited her in.
Even though I held the door open for her, I tried to stay a step ahead of her. I swept my dirty boxers into the closet, but while I was doing that, she noticed the Diet Root Beer cans organized like bowling pins on my coffee table. "Oops. I had a few guys over last night." I tried to grab all ten cans at once, but I ended up dripping some backwash soda on the carpet.
"Hey. Can I use your bathroom?" she asks over the clang of cans in the kitchen sink. "Umm. Sure. Just give me one sec." I rushed into the bathroom and flushed because I had pee pee stewing in the toilet in an attempt to save Hetch Hetchy Reservoir. I crumpled up my Maxim bathroom reading and shoved it under the sink. There wasn't time to wash the toothpaste spittle from mirror, so I prayed she just wouldn't notice.
She came out of the bathroom while I was still trying to button up the new dress shirt I pulled from the closet. "Maybe this isn't a good movie night. We'll try it again another time," she said halfway out the door.
Even now, I'm not sure if it was the underwear, the garbage, the unsanitary bathroom, or simply the overall funk of single-guy apartment. But whatever it was, I'll be eating Saturday-night dinner alone.
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I can't tell if this is fiction or non-fiction. You and your root beer.
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