I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The horror!
Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop.
And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of jeans and the new Stranger Things graphic tee I’d made a few nights before (#FreeBarb) and headed out to work.
The Closed sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people were walking through so I thought nothing of it. The lights were on inside, and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. Obviously we were open.
Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked.
With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? Bee. Yond. I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least.
“Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night off.”
I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work, thank you very much, and yes, I was bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.”
“There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.”
That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend. Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.
But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,” Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score.
The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own.
I texted Ava, Lizzie, and Scarlet. Dranks on me. Because I am nothing if not chivalrous. One by one the refusals came in.
Ava: banging the new guy rn suggest you find one 2
I know, sister. I know. But who has time to look? Not me. See the whole two job thing. Also, the anxiety. How do you even meet people when you’re out of school and working alone most days? If the answer is the internet, no thank you.
Lizzie: No sitter, sorry! *sad face emoji*
Always.
Scarlet: Can’t drink on my pills. Want to come to Bible group?
On a Friday? Heck no I didn’t. Or did I?
Me: Can I bring my own Bible?
Scarlet: The graphic novel collection that is Sandman is NOT THE BIBLE YOU HEATHEN.
Clearly not true at all, so I chose not to respond. Not the bible? It was my bible, and I felt duty-bound to spread the gospel. Excuse me, but do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Neil Gaiman? It was extremely apparent that she was discriminating against me. She was always casually leaving her King James edition around, I saw no reason I couldn’t hand out my Neil Gaiman edition.
Apparently I’d mentioned it often enough that she was wise to my tricks.
Liquor store and Redbox it was, then, because I was not going to waste this night not drinking and watching stupid movies.
A few moments of wandering through the first fine establishment I could find, cleverly named BOOZE4LESS by some classy gentleman, told me that I had not been drinking enough.
When did so many glorious new flavors of vodka become available? Bubblegum? Cake Batter? Skittle? It was an alcoholic twelve year-old’s dream in there.
For a socially awkward ADD graphic artist? Eek.
See, when I get overwhelmed by too many choices, I tend to make a panic decision and choose something that was never actually on my radar. That’s totally how I ended up with the bourbon. I don’t even like bourbon.
And then, lo and behold, when I drove into the driveway I could see Marc through the window, lounging on the couch where I had mentally staked my claim. Dang. I didn’t have a TV in my room, so where was I going to watch the newest-ish superhero movie on my free night?
Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be out partying it up on his own? So much for assuming that he had a more active social life than I did. Or, at least, less-lame friends. Apparently his friends called it quits before dinner, even, so I guessed he won that not-prize. Gosh, I really knew next to nothing about the guy I’d lived with for almost a year.
This was bad. I was not going to drink alone in my room. I wanted to drink alone in the living room! Wait. That sounded bad.
Actually, this didn’t have to be bad. Marc was totally a bourbon guy. Bourbon was a manly drink. Marc was a manly man. Maybe he’d be impressed with my choice. Maybe we could finally live out Couch Night, the fantasy I’d carried for the past ten months.
Ten whole months since the first time I touched his peen. With my chin.
Not that I thought about that. Much. In I went, bourbon at the ready.
Two
“You’re home,” Marc exclaimed when I walked in with the bagged liquor in my arms. His expression seemed to be a cross between shocked and mortified. The shock was understandable since I’d never come home unexpectedly on a Friday night, but the mortification did seem to be a little bit of overkill.
Until I really looked at him. And then I myself was a bit mortified because, was he not wearing pants?
Nope, those were totally just boxer-briefs. Red boxer-briefs. Tight red boxer-briefs.
Oh my. Who knew boxer-briefs were so...revealing? Maybe mortified wasn’t quite the word I was looking for. Astonished was more like it. Bewildered and amazed worked in a pinch as well.
“Um. Sorry. This is awkward,” Marc said, reaching for a blanket to cover his legs.
No! No, don’t cover them, I silently screamed. I’d seen him in his jogging shorts, but that hadn’t given the full effect. This was the full effect, and I needed to bask in it a little longer. Because those were some excellent legs. Superhero legs, if you will. And you will.
And then I had a stroke of utter brilliance. I removed my own pants without a word, leaving them in a pile by the door. The undies stayed on; I’m not a floozy. Just a fan of being Roman in Rome. Besides, if I were going to have something to look at, he should too. I also had fairly nice legs, if I say so myself, and, thank goodness, I’d shaved that afternoon.