Big Time

One

Manhattan, 1990.

“You narcissistic prick!”

“What?”

She paused for a second and swallowed.

“You heard me.”

John raised his eyebrows, wondering where the hell this was coming from. “Look, you’re a great person, I just think—”

“If you weren’t serious about this,” she interrupted, “then you shouldn’t have led me on. I gave up other options for you.” She crossed her arms, defensively. Her tone was more confident now.

She had given up other options? Wasn’t that the whole point of this conversation?

“I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” he continued, “that you knew this wasn’t exclusive. It’s not you. I think you’re great, but ...” He searched for the right words; the last thing he wanted right now was a scene.

Crystal was great. Although she had been made up impeccably the night before, she now looked vulnerable without the defenses of foundation, lipstick, and eye shadow. Her long brown hair was in a ponytail, which cascaded down the back of her white silk blouse. Her dark blue skinny jeans hugged her treadmill-toned legs down to her black leather, knee-high boots. Makeup or not, she was still attractive. She would be a catch for any guy. Except him.

As soon as he had slept with her, all of the chemistry had drained away. He now wanted her to leave. John felt guilty, but there was no attraction left.

“But what?” she asked so aggressively it startled him.

They were in John’s kitchen, which abutted the living room of his two-bedroom apartment. Stainless steel pots sat on the granite countertop, next to the double sinks, begging to be washed. John sat in front of a half-eaten bowl of muesli, looking up at Crystal, who stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, glaring at him. It occurred to him just how upset she was. Realizing he only had another moment to find a legitimate-sounding answer, he wracked his brain for something believable. But what? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Shit! Lie? He was trying not to do that. He didn’t want to be that person. Often, though, it was easier than telling the truth—like right now. He didn’t want to hurt her; he just wanted her gone.

“Just stop for a second,” he said. “Let me get this out without you jumping on everything that I—”

“Jumping on what?” she demanded. John glanced down at the gold Rolex on his wrist. It was five minutes after 10. Instead of continuing, he simply shrugged and brushed his brown hair out of his face.

“You pathetic bastard!” she spat out, her nostrils flaring as she said it. He sat there in silence, trying to get the right expression on his face. He was consciously trying to look serious and not laugh. As he concentrated, the edges of his mouth threatened to turn up at either end. John’s lips twitched nervously.

Last night, Crystal had stayed over for the first time. He hadn’t really wanted her to stay, and to make matters worse, she’d broached the subject of their relationship after sex. Now, she’d verbally attacked him as he was eating his breakfast. It was all too much.

John didn’t want this to end badly. However, he hated being confronted more and having her stalk out would make him feel bad for the rest of the day.

“What did you think was going to happen with us?” he asked, cautiously. “You knew the rules going into this.”

That was the last straw. “You’re all the same,” she spat angrily. She took two steps towards him, her face scrunched up, and he thought she was going to slap him—but she didn’t. “You were just using me!” Grabbing her Birkin bag and matching red coat, she stormed to the door.