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A note propped up on the kitchen counter.
Trinity-
I had to go into the office for a work emergency.
Text me when you’re up and I’ll send an Uber to take you home.
-Martin
His phone number is written in the same neat script beneath his signature.
I read the note several times, my heart rate ticking up with each pass.
A work emergency?
Before nine on a Sunday?
He’s an intellectual property lawyer. What kind of work emergency could he have on a Sunday?
Did the patent office burn down? I don’t think so.
And he’s offering to send me an Uber?
No mention of calling him. Nothing about last night at all. Just, I’ll send you an Uber.
Still clutching the note, I sink down onto one of the bar stools at the counter.
How unbelievably, naively stupid could I be?
Also … can we just acknowledge … flocking lawyers!
I had to go into the office for a work emergency, is clearly lawyer for, I didn’t want to deal with you this morning.
And Text me when you’re up and I’ll send an Uber to take you home, clearly means I expect you to be gone when I get back. But also, See how gentlemanly I am for paying for your Uber?
Clucking, manwhore pretentious lawyers who feed a woman, treat her like a damn queen (and pamper her hens!), only to turn out to be just as douchey as normal, run of the mill manwhores?
That is un-clucking-acceptable!
I want to scream and punch things.
Even more, I want to cry.
And God damn it! What is it about Martin clucking Harris that always has me so close to tears?
You know, I used to be someone who was in control of her emotions!
Then he walks into my life and I’m a wreck!
And having crazy fantasies about bumper stickers and blackout curtains and men who buy croissants and have magic-g-spot-finding dicks.
Well, not men, plural. Man.
One man.
One man who has potentially ruined me for all other men.
Except … flock that shit.
