Tricked into being gallant for a Spainyard
I had met him at a wine bar when a friend and I were sipping away fall midterms. He was handsome in that old fashion medieval knight sense. Strong jaw/nose, tall, broad, dark hair. A bit intimidating, but he triumphed when he told me he was from Spain, loved that I had traveled and said, "You must come to my family's home in Mallorca for the New Year."
"Next Friday I will take you to my favorite sushi place. You will like it."
He wanted to pick me up in a taxi the next week. He is in finance and wants to go home to change, but I just say that I will meet him there.
There goes like this: Eat amazing sushi, drink wine, drink more and more and more wine. We talk, have fun, make those far off plans you hope not to be held to in the future. By the end of the meal, we are wine tired.
He suggests we go to a bar nearby for one last drink. We go downstairs to the bar below Bond while as he says, "We decide where we are going next"; even though he said minutes earlier it was good to end the night not too tired. I am in carb fog. We discuss how the young man in crutches sitting alone came down the steps by himself and why anyone would get drunk at an audibly aggressive lounge when they required such hands on mobility. He gets a phone call while I go to the bathroom. I emerge, after seeing self with sleepy face in mirror to hear:
"My friends are at Marquee, they have the tables. Let's go for just a bit."
I am wearing a short dark rinse jean skirt, a purple shirt, dark leather riding boots and a pea coat. This is not my bling bling outfit. I am pretty sure I wore an only slightly modified version of this same outfit to the first day of second grade because the main character in my favorite Care Bears book wore the same thing. I attempt to maneuver home, but being wine wavy cannot fight his sudden enthusiasm for a club that has oodles and noodles of twenty-two year old publicists, rude models and euro wallet bleeders. We get to the club, his friends have tables and bottles and bottles of champagne. The rest is a bit blurry. At one point he becomes grouchy wants to leave.
"No I'm having fun." I stay.
A very sauvé fem blond British boy presents himself.
We have champagne; everyone is my new best friend!
I recall flashes of jumping up and down, losing a scarf and leaving as the club closes. Before leaving I ask blonde boy where my date is.
"He left you" he says.
I text angrily I can't believe you left me! What the hell!?#?
Then I carry on with my champagne swilling ridiculousness.
I am hungry. "I'm staying at the Hudson,"' blonde British boy says enthusiastically.
"Oh they have the greatest macaroni and cheese at the Hudson restaurant!" I cry out.
Cab ride- Hudson hotel, girl in front of us almost falls down the weirdly lime green lit escalator and crushes us to death- restaurant closed- go up to his room to order room service.
I am under allusion due to British accent that blonde man is my new homosexual best friend. But, he is not. Vibe turns- room service closed, they can send up fruit, I see huge clock that says 4:46 next to bed-- What the hell am I doing here? "I really have to wake up early for work tomorrow," I say literally running down the hall towards the elevators. He chases after me.
He yells, "Let’s have breakfast." I give blonde, British, non-homosexual man my phone number while fleeing and jump in cab of shame.
Next morning blonde, British, non-homosexual man texts, I have brief angry flashes of night prior, I feel guilty for something. But, what? I suppose the rude text. I text Spanish man, apologize for what I refer to as "miscommunication".
He says "We both did things we regret."
I agree but, later am not exactly sure what I agreed to, what he knows, thinks or, he himself did. I erase the British man's text in shame, then curse aloud when I realize Spanish man will never realize my gallant act and I have lost out on a charming pancake liaison. Regret still hovers over pressing erase...