A Year Of Living Stupidly

20. Summer, Pt. II

The mindfulness is working. I'm better at paying attention and reading New Girl's signs. It's like driving. I pay attention to my environment so I can anticipate hazards. Still, no one is perfect. A few bumps are inevitable.

Friday, one of the friendless IT geeks throws himself a birthday party. We're the first to arrive. Thank you, yes, we'd love a beer. Okay, we'll have another. Why has no one else arrived? There is no way we can leave before somebody else gets here. I can't, not after my birthday party letdown. If no one else shows, I will make sure this guy has a birthday he will remember as one of his best.

Sure, we'll spend an hour doing whippets with you. We've killed how many? Thank God more people have arrived. I don't think I can deliver on that 'best party' thing. What's with New Girl? Oh. It's a giggling variation of That Look.

"You're leaving?" Birthday Geek asks. I hem and haw, searching for the polite words.

"We're going to have sex now," New Girl finishes for me, to the point.

Back at my place, it's a laugh riot ripping off each other's clothes and kissing and tickling and licking and The Brains will not stay hard to save his life.

"I am so sorry," I try to tell her in all seriousness, but a pocket of N2O explodes in my brain and I'm laughing uncontrollably again. Well, if it's got to happen, it might as well be like this. No worries. We pile on the foreplay. But as soon as The Brains cooperates, New Girl falls into her own laughing jag that halts the festivities till she can recover. A few more attempts and we pass out, exhausted from laughing so much. First thing in the morning, we make love twice for reassurance.

...

"Are you aware of the change in your language?" She asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Your descriptions of your time in bed are tender and demure."

"We do all the adult things. I'm not trying to sugarcoat anything."

"You've been rather explicit until now."

...

Monday, I share the amusing first half of the whippet story with a work buddy.

Friday, several of us meet at what has become the company bar for the six o'clock usual. New Girl and I exchange a few pleasant words with Projectionist. She's let go of the way he ended things with her. I've given her better things to think about. And then, à propos of nothing, the 'buddy' I confided in explodes Diarrhea Mouth in front of New Girl, making a joke about The Brains' performance anxiety. And there's the bump. I try my hand at damage control.

"You understand how important it is to have friends to talk to," I say. "It was only a few weeks ago you showed up at my door unannounced because you needed to talk to someone."

"I was not discussing our sex life with a stranger."

"Don't you do that with any of your girlfriends?"

"Not at work!"

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is my girlfriends don't spread the intimate details of our relationship around the office."

"It wasn't like that, I swear. There was never any locker room talk. No details."

"It sounded very detailed."

"It was that one story, and it was only about me and only that one time, I promise." I can't tell if she believes me, so I add that Diarrhea Mouth is an idiot for bringing it up at all. Who would have guessed he had so little tact? He's pathetic. She agrees. That's a good sign. I will never, ever tell anyone, especially Diarrhea Mouth, the details of our sex life, or anything else personal. What happens between us stays between us. She purses her brow.