It had been a busy shift, made yet more stressful by endlessly worrying about whether she would have enough time to get home and change. And, what would she wear? And, which perfume to choose? And, should she let Jake kiss her at the end of the night? It was a minor miracle that her only slip-up was during drawing some blood, when her distracted needle work had condemned a very pale young man to a marginally more painful experience than was strictly necessary. He’ll get over it, she remembered thinking to herself. This is hardly the first needle to have gone into his arm.
Fallen grandmothers, mute drug addicts and hassled colleagues all behind her, Megan fairly dashed to her Fiesta for the drive home. Saturday evening’s traffic was only slightly better than on weekdays, and by the time she trotted up the stairs to her apartment, only 40 minutes remained.
“You could text him and tell him you’re running late,” Erica advised. She was lounging in the living room reading the latest Cosmopolitan and making a start on a bottle of Chianti.
Megan was transitioning from shower back to bedroom. “I don’t want to look flaky.”
Erica laughed companionably. “It’s not flaky to give yourself enough time to look fabulous,” she argued. Still, Megan would not be moved, choosing instead to make her dress selection, perfume choice and, perhaps most agonizingly, underwear decisions in a white heat of flustered preparation.
“Sexy or slimming?” she asked Erica, holding up two pairs of panties. “These ones are sexy and empowering, whereas these,” she said, “remind me not to go home with a guy on the first date.” She held them both aloft. “What do you think?”
Erica closed her magazine and gave the choice some thought. “I think,” she said after a long moment, “that whichever pair you choose, they’ll be on his bedroom floor later tonight. May as well go sexy”.
Used to such salacious commentary from her roommate, Megan feigned a shocked disgust. “You know how many men have had my underwear on their floor in the last year?”
Erica held up a circled thumb and forefinger. “Is that about right? Plus or minus?”
“Yes it is, young lady. But, like I said, I don’t screw guys on first dates. I thought you knew that about me.”
The two women heard a car pull up outside, but it was Erica who stepped to the window. “Yeah,” she offered, looking out. “I have the feeling you’ll be rethinking that rule this evening.”
“Oh, really?” Megan replied, fastening a pair of silver earrings to her ears. “Why is that?”
Erica pointed out of the window and Megan followed her gesture to find a gleaming, almost futuristic sports car adorning their street. A gull-wing door opened in the sleek, silver fuselage and Jake McMahon stepped out.
“Holy shit! It’s a Back To The Future car!”
Erica laughed and helped smooth down Megan’s dress, a tight-ish, black cocktail dress, short enough to be sexy but not so short as to risk an immodest display when getting into a sports car. “You’ll be fine. Be yourself, but no jokes about ‘compensating’ or asking him if he has hair plugs!”
“But you didn’t see that guy!” Megan protested.
“Yeah,” replied Erica drily. “If I remember correctly, you never saw him again, either.”
Megan shrugged. “Yeah, well. He had hair plugs. Who wants to date a guy with hair plugs? Anyway, Jake looks like a goddamn model. I’ll be lucky if I can talk at all in front of him.”
“Just text me later, OK?” She kissed Megan on the cheek. “Especially if you need me to be, erm...”
“Out of the way?” Megan guessed.
“Let’s say that. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
Megan turned to the mirror at the top of the stairs. “Crap! I haven’t done anything to my hair and he’s already here!”
Erica watched this pre-departure chaos with amusement but always wished Megan success, especially in her stuttering love life. “Just flip your head over and shake it out,” she advised. “The sexy bed-head look is very popular with guys.”
Megan obliged and then flipped her head back up. “Okay?”
“You look like a friggin’ supermodel. You may both spend the evening incapable of speech!”
Megan spanked Erica’s butt playfully on the way out, grabbed her black leather purse and slinked down the stair, feeling a little like a model on a catwalk. Her outward bravado hid some pretty major inner nerves. Breathe, Megan. He ain’t all that, really. Just a world-famous, tech-genius, Lamborghini-driving serial monogamist.
Oh. Fuck.
Megan opened the door.
“Good evening.” Jake was in a relaxed, dark blue suit with a white button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone. His blonde hair was looking its best, as if he’d come straight from the barber. He wore a smile which exuded confidence in an open, rather sexy way. In the two seconds it took Megan to form an impression, she quickly found herself close to panic. What is this guy doing on a date with me?
“Well, I have to tell you, Jake,” she quipped nervously, motioning to the sports car, “if this is intended to impress me, it’s working.”