Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 209

You guys,

It was supposed to be a one-night stand. 

I went to his place, had sex, slept over, and the next morning when he dropped me off I said, “Well, thanks… bye,” and got out of the car. Later I went to The Masonry—my place of work—and found my co-workers at the bar. I practically ran over to tell them my big news. 

“What makes you think it was a one-night stand?” one of the guys asked. 

“Uh, I didn’t give him my number!” I shouted.  

I was proud of myself. This was exactly what I needed after the last guy, Brad. I had been trying to be cool and single and fun with Brad but suddenly I wanted him to be my boyfriend. When he ended things after only a few weeks of me going to his place at midnight, with the occasional outing for a slice of pie at his favorite bakery even though I didn’t even like pie, the rejection was not something I’d experienced in my romantic life in a long time. Before Brad there was Nick, my boyfriend of eight years, and that had ended on my terms.   

All the bartenders told me I needed to get over Brad, and the best way to do that was to have a one-night stand. 

Ryan was the perfect candidate. He went to college with my boss, Freddie, and traipsed into the bar every weekend with a whole posse of typical frat dudes. I swear they all wore blue jeans and plain white V-neck T-shirts. They took over Table 41, ordered shots, and yelled at the football game on the T.V. Ryan had a dazzling, contagious smile and when he directed his attention towards me it felt as good as it gets. I played up my Jersey attitude and sarcasm—because that was the only way I knew how to flirt—and he laughed at everything I said. 

The one-night stand happened on SuperBowl Sunday. I’d worked a double and was over it. Sloppy mimosa chuggers gave way to all-day beer drinkers and it was time for me to have my own fun. My friend Gina and I locked ourselves in the bar’s bathroom and changed out of our work clothes. She lent me a geometric purple and black dress to wear. It had a wide neckline and a circle cut-out on the upper back and I felt like a twelve-year-old playing dress up. Then we snorted cocaine and I forgot all about what I was wearing. I grabbed my clutch and my server book with over $600 in tips and we piled into Freddie’s UberX and hit the karaoke bar. 

Ryan was there, though I don’t remember much. I remember flirting, I remember watching Freddie sing some obvious rock song very poorly, I remember more bathroom breaks with Gina.

The next morning I woke up in Ryan’s bed in his Brentwood apartment and he wasn’t there. I put on my clothes and looked around the room. There was a big shelving unit with one plant on it, and a dresser and a desk with barely anything on them. It looked like a picture in GQ magazine. I couldn’t find my clutch or my server book. I texted Gina. She sent back a picture of my clutch and wrote, “Idiot.” 

But no server book. My tips were gone. 

I walked out to the hallway and found the kitchen. Spotless. I opened the refrigerator. It was practically empty except for a couple sports drinks. I sat down at the kitchen table and held my head in my hands. 

Ryan finally walked in. He’d gone out for a run, naturally. Now he offered to drive me home. I followed him to the parking garage and of course he drove a black BMW. 

I basked for a week in my single, cool, and care-free way of being. This was the new Charlie. 

The following Saturday I stood at the computer in the server station, putting in an order, when Ryan suddenly appeared next to me.

“Hey,” he said, with that big smile on his face. “You never gave me your number, I wanted to call you.” 

I instantly gave him my phone number. He texted me that night. We hooked up for weeks, just like I had with Brad. 

One night we sat together on his bed and I asked, “Are we just best friends? Because I really like you, a lot, and I just think the sex should be better.” 

Ryan laughed and put a playful hand on my face and told me to stop talking. 

He ghosted me after that. I had no idea why.

—

Until next week,

Charlie