by Amy Dennis
I opened the bathroom door and came out to find Mark* waiting at the foot of my bed wearing only his underwear. A few minutes ago, we were acquaintances with potential; now, here stood six feet eight inches of doughy furniture salesman in my girly bedroom, defiling my fortress of solitude with his black boxer briefs. Somehow, our relationship must have progressed pretty rapidly while I was on the toilet. Unsure of exactly what to say, I took a beat and peered at him closely.
In the lamp light, I watched his entire frame sway back and forth. His eyes blinked slowly, and his slack mouth gaped a little. He was plastered. I’d known that, of course. It’s why I told him to sleep at my house. “There’s plenty of room,” I had said. “You shouldn’t drive,” I had said. I’m pretty sure those were my words, but it must have sounded to Mark something like, “Hey, baby, I’m gonna slip into something more comfortable while you get ready to rock and roll! I can’t wait to see you in those sexy, stretched out, cotton underpants you’ve probably been wearing for the last three days.”