Good Time(23)

I’m about to reply when the banging on my front door starts. The banging is overkill because these apartments have doorbells. It’s Vince, obviously. Unless I’ve entered an episode of a murder mystery program and a serial killer has selected this moment to randomly knock on my door.

Peephole confirmation: it’s Vince.

Canon sucks at giving a heads-up. My hair is still damp while Vince has clearly had time to shower, shave and drive over here. And he’s not in last night’s clothing either, so he’s been home. He looks good. I bet he didn’t take a shower with crackers.

The knocking stops and he gives the peephole a dirty look before he speaks in a volume that makes me think he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. “I know you’re home, Payton. Open the door.”

I sigh. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe he needs health insurance or a wife for an inheritance, you never know.

I open the door.

He’s braced one arm on the doorframe, his body filling the entire space. He looks even better today than he did last night, which should be impossible but is unfair if nothing else. He runs his gaze over me. I’m wearing a faded LSU t-shirt and yoga pants. My hair is still damp and I’m not wearing a drop of makeup. He looks like a god in a fresh-pressed shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a pair of worn-in jeans. Neither of us says anything.

“We should talk.” He finally speaks after it’s clear I’m not going to. He’s still standing in my doorway because I’ve not moved out of the way or invited him in either.

“Or we should have tacos?” I offer just in case the A or B game is still in effect. Talking versus tacos would be an easy pick for me.

He lifts his hand. He’s holding an iced coffee and a Del Taco bag. Holy crap. How did he know I wanted tacos before I told him I wanted tacos? He really is my one true love.

“How did you know I wanted tacos?” I ask, stepping back to allow him inside because show me a girl who doesn’t open the door for tacos and I’ll show you a grasshopper. I know that made no sense, but really, what would have? Show me a girl who doesn’t like tacos and I’ll show you… what? That idiom was destined to fail from the start. Anyway, I let him in because we’ve got that whole married thing going on so it seems like it would be rude to make him eat tacos on my doorstep.

“You mentioned it fifteen times last night.”

“I did?” God, what else did I mention? I’m fairly proud of my memory retention but I don’t recall anything about tacos.

“You did. Right before you told us the frat-coon story you said that you should never have given us the choice between A, tacos and B, pizza because you really wanted tacos.”

“Oh.” I tap my lip with my finger. That does sounds accurate. Nothing against pizza, I just really really wanted a taco.

“Then you sang about tacos during karaoke.”

“Stop it. That did not happen.” I walk the ten feet to the kitchen table, Vince right behind me.

“‘I love tacos,’” Vince starts in a voice that is clearly meant to be mine as he sets the takeout bag on the table. “‘I love tacos for lunch or dinner. Beef or chicken, it doesn’t matter.’”

Wait. That sounds familiar…

“‘I love them with lettuce and shredded cheese, jalape?os on the side or they’ll be denied.’”

Oh, God. I was rhyming. Goddamn tequila.

“‘Soft or crunchy, they’re always yummy.’”

“Okay, stop!” I think I’m blushing. The man has seen my vagina up close and personal and I’m blushing over a taco song. Oh, the irony. “Maybe that happened.” I drop into a seat without looking at him. He sets the iced coffee down on the table in front of me before unpacking the tacos. The straw is already in the cup with two inches of wrapper left on the end like a tiny straw condom. I take it off and stick it in my mouth—the straw, not the wrapper. I glance up at him while I suck and imagine what having Vince in my mouth would feel like. Vince’s eyes darken as he watches me slide the straw between my lips and I think we might have matching visualization boards right now.

It occurs to me that I’m the worst wedding night lay in the history of wedding nights. I lost count of how many times he got me off and I didn’t even give him a blow job. I did give him a hand job in the shower so at least there’s that.

I take another drag on my iced coffee while I sulk. I always imagined myself as a very generous wife, sexually. It was how I was going to compensate for having no interest in crockpots or any desire to pick up dry cleaning.

He clears his throat as he pulls two bottles of water out of the bottom of the bag and sets one in front of me.

“You should hydrate,” he instructs as he pulls out the chair beside mine.

“I had a Gatorade in the shower.” Now that I think of it, I think I lost some time in the shower because I’m not sure where this morning has gone. Wait—I know what happened. I was masturbating to the memory of the shower I had with Vince last night. Son of a bitch, I’m going to have to start getting up early for work now.

“That sounds about right,” Vince murmurs, uncapping his water and tipping it back to his lips. Do not look at his lips, do not look at his lips, do not look at his lips. I grab a taco and unwrap it, then take a bite and examine the wrapper while I chew. Shredded cheese is delicious.