He told me to come over for no real reason. When I pressed him why I should leave my cozy, perfectly tempered apartment during the big polar vortex of Chicago, he said, “Warmth should be shared during this type of snow storm.”
I said, “Dude, you’re lame. You’re going to have to do better than that. It’s fucking freezing out there. Haven’t you been watching the news?”
He said he hadn’t been watching the news because he’d been busy.
“Busy doing what?” I asked in my as-if, valley-girl voice.
He said — simply with no hint of emotion– “Busy playing with my new toy.”
“A new toy?” I repeated, letting the idea run through my sex toy catalogue.
“You will never guess what I bought, so just come on over and check it out. No — come on over and play with me. See you in 20.”
The phone clicked.
That was his signature move — a demand given with no time for me to: (1) properly analyze it, (2) self-debate the pros and cons, (3) give a logical response, and (4) prolong my indecision thereby strengthening my seduction prowess.
I looked out my living window. Snow, a real thick layer, covered my front lawn and the cars and the street and the bushes and the trees. “Uuggh! It’s below-zero freezing out there.”
My eyes lingered on the stagnant view. Gradually, they moved from the outside scenery to my maroon curtains to the dreamcatcher on the door to my knee-high boots near the door mat. Hanging above the boot was my extra long scarf that would cover my entire face, preventing that real chilly wind from whipping my face in punishment for disobeying logic.
I looked at my calendar. Sixteen days since I last had it.
“Fuck!” I shouted; he wins again.