“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.
She’s caught me staring.
Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.
“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”
I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.
“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.
I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.
“Looks good.”
“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”
She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.
We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.
Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.
“Did I just get a match?”
I check. Some guy named Sergio sent her a message.
“I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”
She huffs out a sigh of annoyance and marches over to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”
My dick stirs and I ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now.
“Well I’m not sure this Sergio is up to the task. He looks like he waxes his eyebrows.”
“So? That sounds like a great first date idea. Mine are overdue.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her, so she deflects.
“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”
I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”
She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”
“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”
“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”
I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”
One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”
Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…
Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”
“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”
She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.
SERGIO: Hey QT
SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.
“Ian!”
“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”
She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”
I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.
Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.
Maybe I should start using dating apps too.
It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.
She groans in annoyance.
“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”
She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.
“What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”
“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”
“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”
“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”
“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”
Who does?
She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”
“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”
“She’s 68.”
“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”
She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.
She’s caught me staring.
Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.
“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”
I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.
“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.
I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.
“Looks good.”
“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”
She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.
We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.
Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.
“Did I just get a match?”
I check. Some guy named Sergio sent her a message.
“I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”
She huffs out a sigh of annoyance and marches over to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”
My dick stirs and I ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now.
“Well I’m not sure this Sergio is up to the task. He looks like he waxes his eyebrows.”
“So? That sounds like a great first date idea. Mine are overdue.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her, so she deflects.
“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”
I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”
She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”
“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”
“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”
I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”
One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”
Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…
Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”
“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”
She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.
SERGIO: Hey QT
SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.
“Ian!”
“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”
She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”
I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.
Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.
Maybe I should start using dating apps too.
It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.
She groans in annoyance.
“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”
She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.
“What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”
“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”
“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”
“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”
“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”
Who does?
She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”
“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”
“She’s 68.”
“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”
She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”
