This might come as a surprise to you but I have another bad habit that I don't believe I've mentioned as of yet. I like to put $50s into stupid computer machines to see if I can win millions...you know, gambling. Once I won $1,500 on a penny slot machine, and I've spent about $25,000 trying to do that again. On any given night I will go to the casino, which is located mere steps from my apartment, and pay $200 - $500 to sit and stare at a machine with penguins or samurais on it, while drinking myself into oblivion. As you picture this pathetic scene, you can imagine my innate surprise when last night, I actually met a great man there.
I was minding my own beeswax and noticed a tall, handsome, well-dressed guy walk by. "He's hot" I thought to myself, and got back to my Stoli and dancing penguins. About 2 minutes later he came up behind me and asked me if I can show him how to play the slots, he's never played before. As you need the brainpower of a Brussels sprout to figure it out, I knew he just wanted to talk to (or fuck) me. Fab. We chatted for the next hour, had a couple drinks, and decided to go grab a couple more at the club next door. He was actually relatively intoxicated, and kept saying so, but he seemed to still be able to string sentences together so I went with it. After an hour of great music he finally asked if he could kiss me. Yes, yes he could, and yes, yes we did, for the next 30 minutes. He kept saying things like "how are you single?" and "I think I love you already," you know, shit that makes my ovaries wake up and realize there's still hope. This guy was perfect. He has a great job that requires him to wear a sexy uniform, he's 32, single, owns his home, works 2 blocks from my apartment, and most importantly, thinks I'm amazing. Jackpot.
Now usually when I find a man I actually think has potential to become my husband, I don't sleep with him. But for some reason I wanted to sleep with my future husband last night, just mere hours after meeting him. So after the club we headed towards my apartment so we could browse China patterns online and devour each other. On the walk from the club to my apartment, there are several stairs leading up to my building. Yes, it can be a daunting task, but I haven't actually had any complaints. Then last night, after about 5 of the 50 stairs, my future husband stops and props himself up against the cement wall and says in his sexiest, drunk tone "come here." I had no idea how my chosen reaction would change our fate.
Instead of "coming here," I told him we were just a few steps away from my place, keep going, and I charged ahead; those China patterns weren't going to choose themselves. I got to the top of the stairs and looked back and he hadn't moved. He was still standing there, folded arms and all, like he was still waiting for me to "come here." I was confused. Surely he would muster up enough strength to scale the stairs for his future wife, right? I figured if I got out of sight, he would stop waiting for me to come back down and finish his scaling of the metropolitan Alps. My apartment really was just at the top of the steps, so I went to my doorway to wait. I waited about 5 minutes and still nothing. Huh. Oh well, I figured maybe he wasn't that interested in me after all, and I headed up to my place so I would have a safe place to sit as my ovaries re-shriveled. Although I didn't have my husband's number, he had mine, so I thought he may even call me when he realized I wasn't waiting. I ate an entire box of crackers and still nothing. Oh well, time for sleep I guess. I went to bed and was actually a little happy that we didn't have sex that night. There would be plenty of time for that in our new house, we'd discuss it tomorrow when we met with the wedding planner.
Well now it's tomorrow and I haven't heard from him yet. For the first hour I was awake I was just surprised that he hadn't called to tell his wife to have a nice day. Now as I piece together the night, I'm rather concerned about his safety. My husband told me probably a total of 26 times that he was "really drunk." When I made it to the top of the stairs and looked back at him standing there with his arms folded, were his eyes even open? Was he passed out standing up? It is a rather peaceful spot, not much noise that late at night, maybe he drifted off. Or maybe he got mugged. Or murdered. Fuck. I'm such an asshole. Who leaves their drunk husband for dead on concrete stairs and then eats crackers and goes to sleep? What am I, some kind of sociopath? Great. I've gone from having a husband to either being an ex-wife or a widow in the past 24 hours. I don't need him to call me for personal reasons, I now am waiting by my phone so I know he's okay, I'm worried sick. I'm such a douchebag. Fucking shit crap fuck.
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