The Right One

I'm sitting in the backyard of my neighborhood cafe. It's noon on a sunny Saturday (a time and condition second only to noon on a sunny Sunday in the race for busiest brunch times), and the touseled people are here, post-coital, smiley, and sharing grapes. I'm hogging a 2-top, using the cafe's free WiFi, and ordering $4's worth of food and beverage. The waitstaff hates me. I have no napkin, no ashtray. They scoot by delivering huevos rancheros to tables of hipsters, glancing disapprovingly at me, my laptop, and my iced coffee. What do they have against my laptop? It never did anything to them.

I've been on those delicious, disheveled, day-after brunches. In fact, the last one was here. I can't remember if it was with my once-adored Jersey boy or with an awkward friend who had crashed on my couch and tried to get into my bed in the middle of the night in a drunken haze. I had given him a pillow, shut my door, and lain down when I heard a knock. Frantically pulling on my robe, I tripped to the door and opened it a millimeter. He peered up at me. "Um, would it be okay if I slept in here with you?" My hand tightened on the doorknob. My head slowly shook from side to side. "No." He did not move. As the door shut, his face was pale and humiliated. I locked the door, bad feelings flickering through my nervous system, and returned to my big, safe bed, my liferaft. And after watching Taxi, I fell asleep and dreamed of moonlight and kisses and the big, warm body of the right one.