How to Eat Your Heart: Part 4

The relief of knowing Gremlin is ok is replaced with the heavy burden of sleepiness.  It’s now almost three in the morning, and I’ve been running my ass off since Mcdonalds.  Tuesday! It’s only Tuesday!  It feels like a lifetime has passed.

Asher and I return to the couch, but now Gremlin is curled up happily, whatever was ailing him before has passed like a ship in the night, leaving all of us to be swept away by the hypnotizing waves of relief.  Gremlin is snuggled up next to me, Asher is on the other side of him, just as before.  He lets out a yawn and then like dominoes Gremlin and I follow suit.  I pull out a blanket, spread it across the couch and it engulfs us like a wave.  Asher whispers something about not having to go in to the office until late on Wednesday and I, in a haze, say me too.  He asks if he should set an alarm and then….

I drift away.

---

The next morning, I wake up to a crick in my neck and a warm body pushed against me.  The blanket is strewn on the floor but Asher’s arms and legs are cacooning me to the couch.  Gremlin is smashed between us.  His tongue is hanging out indicating the depths of his sleep.  I reach over for my phone and don’t find it next to my face, where it usually is.  The strange and unsafe sensation of not knowing what time of day it is hits me with a weird force.  And just like that, the list of daily responsibilities unravels my brain.

Asher rustles and the warmth between us intensifies.

“Hey,” his voice is hoarse with sleep.

“I’ve got to get up,” I say.

He pulls me tight in to a hug, “Nah.” But I’m already pushing away and getting ready for the big day.

---

Aisha’s art show is in a garage off a side street.  The owner of the garage lent the space to her, considering himself a patron of the arts of sorts.  A real modern day Medici.  The social media push behind the show was big though and Aisha expected a real banger of a turn out.  

“I posted about it on my insta stories and got over a thousand views,” she told me one day while I was visiting her at her carriage house four blocks from me. (It was I who moved to her area and not the other way around.  Nobody ever said I wasn’t needy).  Aisha was wearing one of her classic artist robes.  This one was an upcyled sari that she found from another artist off etsy, the long robe dripping from her graceful arms in folds of gold and purple silk.  I watched as she pushed up the long bell sleeve so as not to muss it in the trash. “And four hundred retweets.”

The name of her exhibit is “All My Best Trash”.

She explained it to me as thus: whenever Aisha gets a tweet from a person (e.g. any man) that is particularly heinous, she prints the tweet out, puts it on her wall, almost as if in a shrine to it, then digs through her trash to repurpose garbage to create art that represents the tweet.

“I turn their symbolic trash into real trash,” she says. “And then I make it art.”

I nod while listening to this, and all I can think about is how I’m far too squeamish to put my hands into a trash bin, but I guess that’s why one of us is making art and the other of us is sending out invoices for dog walks at the end of every month.  Let’s hope life is long for all of us.

The All My Best Trash exhibit is tonight, and I’ve got to plan an outfit.  I hate these kinds of events because I just never quite know what to wear.  Black seems like a good option, but is black too boring?  Is black too expected?  It’s not as if anyone will be there to see me, at any rate.  If no one cares what I wear, why is it always such a huge deal?  If a tree falls in the woods..

Another problem I’m having is yesterday’s binge.  Not just binge, drunken and make out binge.  It’s one thing to have a binge and then go to sleep early and get up early to sweat it out all day, but it’s another thing to have a binge, get drunk, fall asleep next to a near stranger, and then have to dress up for a super cool art show.

I step into my unorganized walk in closet with a sense of foreboding and dread.  The closet is large and has a window.  A better, more beautiful, thinner woman than I would know how to make the most of it.  She’d have silk curtains, instead of the weird green seventies paisley ones that I’d left from whoever lived here before me, she’d stick a pristine vanity at the very end, with light bulbs surrounding it and glass roller balls of scents.  She’d have her clothes Mario-Kondo’d to the Gods.

But, alas, I am not that bitch.

I turn to dig into the wire wracks to the right side of the wall where I’ve haphazardly, if at all, folded mounds and mounds of black jersey knit shirts.  Some wrinkled, some falling half off the ledge from the last time I went hunting around for the perfect black shirt.  And here I find myself again, making even a bigger mess. (Story of my life.)

And yes, it’ll have to be black tonight because last night's binge did indeed make me feel fat.  And there’s nothing, nothing, in the world I hate more than feeling fat.  The fact that I didn’t make up for the binge last night after Asher left with extra work outs has left me feeling all kinds of skeevy.  I just feel itchy all over, but there won’t be time to get a work out in now, I’ve delayed too long with the hangover.  And the day dreaming.  And the lounging with Gremlin.

I pull out a sheer black cotton v-kneck shirt,a black jersey mini , and a black lace bra.  Items of clothing drop to the ground.  It’s practically a sauna outside, but while dark, the material is light.  I take precautions not to glance at my body in the full length mirror.  Reflections won’t do me any favors after last night, so best just to avoid all together until completely necessary.

I stab my legs into the skirt, jumping up and down like a stubborn pillow into a too small pillow case, and then the bra and shirt, knotting it at my midriff.  My body feels hot, swollen, and the clothes feel tight, like sausage casings. That reminds me that I should really just go vegan already.  My body is in women’s fashion jail, but we do what we must.

Ever since my faux emergency with Gremlin last night he’s been acting one hundo percent again.  Not even a sign that anything was wrong at all, and also another message from Jason Saison alerting that he’d be arriving in a few minutes.  I was nervous about Gremlin, but Asher said that’s just what happens sometimes.  He’ll probably still need to lose the leg though.

I smooth the clothes over my body, and brush out my hair, applying dark eyeliner for the evening and then wiping it off in a panic.  That doesn’t look right at all.

Fresh faced it is, a fresh faced thirty-three year old.  That’s a thing, right?

I glance down at Gremlin, he’s scooted his bowling ball body into the closet with me.

“I’ll miss you, bud,” I murmur as I push my way out of the closet.  He’s right behind me the whole way.

I make my way out to the kitchen, checking my phone, squarely avoiding the refrigerator.  

Don’t even think about it.

No texts from Jason Saison or Asher Malone either.  

I invited Asher to the art show tonight.  I know Aisha would be proud of me for that.  I should be more nervous about him picking me up, checking my phone every second just to convince myself he’s not standing me up, but truth be told I’m too bloated and tired to really care.

When Aisha and I were in college I brought a particularly embarrassing boy to one of her shows.  His name was something basic, like Matt, and he was a gangly six foot four.  He gelled his hair up in the way that was popular back in the mid two-thousands and wore Lucky brand jeans.  His favorite baseball team was the White Sox and his favorite book was the Bible.  It wasn’t the right kind of person to bring to an art show featuring naked models posed in pornographic positions but in the place of genitalia were door knobs and handles.  Aisha banned me from ever bringing a boy again after that.  But I think after a decade of good behavior I’ve earned my reprieve.

I trail out of the kitchen, scooping Gremlin up into my arms, and placing a kiss on his round head.  The underwire of my bra is starting to itch something fierce.  After years of living day in and day out in funky patterned sports bras, this lacy balconette just ain’t going to fly.  

I decide life’s too short to wear a bra inside, and unhinge it from the back pulling it through my sleeves, all with Gremlin in my arms.  I waltz him around the kitchen for a few to imaginary music to celebrate the freedom of my breasts.

 I’ll show you talent.

I text Aisha,

Bringing a surprise tonight.  Will make you proud.

Before she can replies there is a knock at the door.

Did I order postmates?  No, no.  Can’t be right.  I’m on a post binge diet.  Can’t be Jason Saison either, he promised to text when he landed, and I haven’t heard from him since shortly after our incident.

Feeling magnanimous, I waltz Gremlin over to the front door, boobs run amok, swinging it open with a flourish.

Only to find myself face to face with Jason Saison.

In no bra.  God.  Dammit.  What is it about this man that my boobs are so attracted to.  It doesn’t help matters that my nipples instantly go hard.  Traitors.

And here’s why: Jason Saison is even hotter in person than he is in his pictures.  Even hotter in person than he is in his shirtless selfies.  Jason Saison is hot like the Pad Thai the restaurant owner won’t sell to white people.  Five chili peppers hot.

Even though it’s clear by the way he’s slumped a bit in my doorway, that he’s a bit tired and rumpled from his flight, he’s wearing faded black denim and a grey sweatshirt with some kind of college emblem on the side (is that Harvard? It’s gotta be Harvard.). I stop my eyes from allowing my brain to relive the image in the mirror.  Just as Asher’s was the night before, Jason’s hair is rumpled, and I’m beginning to notice a trend in my attraction towards slightly messy men.

If that weren’t ever a metaphor.

Jason runs his hands through his hair and stares at me with intense grey eyes.  I could get lost in those eyes.  We all could get lost in those -

“Interesting,” Jason says, interrupting my entirely, appropriate, completely normal staring.  His eyes gaze down my body.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, I realize I’m turning away from him with Gremlin in my arms.

“Yeah, a little bit crazy trying to get back; I’m sure you under - oh Gremliny, guy, buddy, pal, best friend, I’ve missed you.” Jason takes Gremlin from my arms, Gremlin’s tail wagging wildly.  I admit to feeling a little sad.

“We had a little bit of a scare last night,” I said.  “But I couldn’t get a hold of you, so Dr. Malone took care of it ----” I involuntarily blush.  “And he’s doing great now.  He’s been totally himself for the last day.”

“What do you mean Asher took care of it?” Jason asks, his brows draw together.

“He gave me his number in case of emergencies after our appointment yesterday.”

“That was generous of him.  So he was here in your house then?  Classic Asher, go figure.”

I turn to head to collect Gremlin’s things, Jason puts Gremlin down and Gremlin scampers after me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask because quite frankly I don’t like his tone.

Jason strides behind me, arms crossed over his expansive chest.

“I went to college with that guy.  On the same floor our freshman year.”

“Yeah, I know that so?” 

Jason rolls his eyes, “Ladies man.”

“And you weren’t?” I pick up a bag of Gremlin’s food and shove it in Jason’s arms.

“I was a committed man,” he says.

“So committed you sent me a shirtless selfie.”

There, I said it.

Why did I say it?

Jason raises his eye brows, smirks.  Almost as if he’s pleased I brought it up.

“You started it.”

We are facing each other in my kitchen now, me in my all black attire, very aware of my bra-less situation and my knotted shirt with exposed midriff and he, perfect, rumpled J-Crew model of a man, looking at me in a peculiar way that I don’t like I don’t like it one bit.

I grab him by the shoulders and pull him down towards me.  Nobody talks to me this way in my own home, with such confidence and attitude like they own the place, hell I don’t even own this place if you consider the fact that I haven’t paid off most of the mortgage.

This is going to happen, I’m going to kiss this man and I’m going to touch the hard planes of his chest, where there is most likely a perfect smattering of chest hair.  He leans his head down over mine and I can feel a light breath of air against my lips.  

My  nipples go hard, and I grab the back of his neck with my hand, bringing his mouth to mine and we---

Nah, psyche.

We aren’t kissing.  That didn’t happen, but if my psyche has anything to do with it, apparently I really really want it to happen.  Maybe I’m ovulating?  I should really start using one of those period tracking apps.  I’ve always been a little laissez faire about it.

“What did you and the good doctor,” He uses air quotes, “Talk about?” Jason steps a tiny bit closer to me, I feel myself instinctively back away.

“He came to help with Gremlin, don’t you want to know about that first?”

“No, you said he’s fine, and I’m home now so he’ll be ok.”

“He was ok with me.” I don’t know why I’m defensive.

Jason stops the intense stare into my eyes, and eases up, raking his hands through his thick mane of blonde hair.

“How much do I owe you?”

“I send a bill monthly to Jill.”

“Well, that won’t be happening anymore, you can send bills to me now.  So how much do I owe you? I’ll write you a check here.”

“Nine hundred for the month.”

Jason does a double take.

“Dollars?”

“No, rubles, and you can call me Natasha.  Yes, of course dollars.  Didn’t you have any idea?  Also, I kept your dog in my home for nine nights.  He slept in my bed.  This is a first class service.”

Jason lifts an eyebrow.  “Ok, well, no more payments are coming from Jill, only me now.” He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, “Do you take venmo?”

I nod even though technically I demand cash from my clients, and they all happily pay.  You know the saying, good help is hard to find.

As he’s tapping at his phone, eyebrows drawn, I remember that he just broken up with someone, “I’m sorry about your break up.”

“Why?” he asks without looking up.

I scrunch my nose, “Because break ups are bad?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, not in this case.  It was a long time in coming.  She and I were like chalk and cheese at the end of the day.  Been together twelve years.  And...and...she wanted me to put Gremlin down.   Wants a French Bulldog puppy instead. Some things you just can’t compromise.”  He gives a hard tap on his screen, “There, all paid up.”

I shrug, “Thanks.” 

I gather up Gremlin’s things and Jason leans down to scoop him up, talking baby talk the whole time.

“So, what’s your plan for him?  Will you go through with the surgery?” I ask, nervous for the little guy.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep him around.  He’s been my guy since day one.  I found him in a dumpster behind a Taco Bell when he was two weeks old.”

The knock on the door draws all of our attention.  Gremlin lets out a round of woofs.

“Yes, Gremlin, what a brave guard dog,” Jason praises.  Then to me, he raises an eyebrow, “Did I interrupt? Expecting guests?”

“Yes, actually…excuse me a second...” Why do I feel a little anxious about it?

I scuttle away to open the door to an absolutely pulled together and gorgeous Asher Malone.  Two dates in two days?  Butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach at the sight of him when I think about how he - back in the one dangly earring - really is the perfect accessory to a hip art show.

Asher pulls me against his chest, and I relish the strong, hard plane of it.  He’s wearing a Clash tshirt.  

“Let’s begin where we left off,” he mutters into my hair.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind us pulls me back to my space.

I push away, leading Asher into the house by his hand.

“Jason?” Asher holds out a hand.

Jason takes it in what looks like one of those bone-crushing grips.  Asher rubs his hand upon return.

“Picking up my dog,” Jason says, lifting Gremlin a bit in his arms.

“Ah, yeah, it was touch and go last night,”  Asher said.  “But our little guy pulled through.”

“My little guy, but sure,” said Jason.

Asher turns to me, “Should we be on our way then?”

I look at Jason, who shrugs his shoulders, “By all means, don’t let me interfere with your date.”

“Oh, it’s not a date,” I stammer out.  “We’re just going to an art show.”

Jason’s ears perk up, “An art show? I like art.  In fact, I’m going to need some art for my new place.”   He cants his head towards Asher, “Jill and I split.  I’m moving out.”

Asher makes a clicking sound with his mouth and shakes his head, “Sorry, man.”  There’s an awkward moment and then Asher asks, “Did you want to join us?”

And that’s how I ended up in Asher’s Prius with Jason and Gremlin in the back on the way to Aisha’s art show.

“I don’t think this is the kind of art you’re going to be looking for in your new house…” I muse from the front seat of the car on our way to the show, my legs are crossed and smooshed together as my seat is pushed all the way forward to accommodate Jason’s size.

“I could use a change of pace.” Jason says.  I catch a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror and for a moment he catches my eye.  Both of these men are hotter than I deserve.