Little Talks: Playing Through

The first in a series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent-free in Scott’s head.

“Who ever told you Tito’s was part of a complete breakfast?” she says as she turns the corner into the kitchen to find me pouring the main ingredient to my first drink of the day at approximately 10:30 in the morning. “Little early, isn’t it?”

There’s not a lot of shock or judgment, really, in her tone. It’s more like she’s ribbing me a little bit, if I had to choose a word — mostly just trying to get my goat as I reach into the fridge for the bottle of seltzer from the knock-off SodaStream. (At least I’m reducing my footprint by not using the somewhat shocking amount of cans I could to accommodate my vodka/soda vice.)

“I would have predicted an orange juice mixer at this hour,” she says as she’s buttoning up her shirt. She looks amazing. Slightly disheveled in the best possible way, while I am standing there clad only in my glasses, a pair of washed-out boxer briefs and a T-shirt from a college I didn’t even go to. And with a handle of booze in my hand that will likely be the heaviest thing I lift through the day unless at some point we end up going back to bed.

“You know, I don’t know who decided a certain time of day was appropriate for drinking, but I wasn’t consulted and don’t feel like I need to adhere to those fake-ass rules, especially on a Saturday, so I won’t. And besides, sometimes when you’ve had a heavy night of dirty martinis it’s best not to let the hangover bite,” I say, picking up the plastic Pittsburgh Pirates cup into which I’ve poured my concoction and swirling it around clockwise a few times. “I learned this a long time ago. I call it playing through. A way of getting out ahead of what’s trying to come for you. It’s an art. I’m working on perfecting it.”

“I love art in pretty much all its forms,” she says. “So sign me up, I guess. I don’t really have shit to do today, so, here we go.”

“Well, alright then. Coffee’s on the table too.”

She looks over at the coffee table, made specifically for coffee apparently, realizes I mean it’s an option, like, “This choice is on the table,” not that I’ve already made or gone out and got some while she was still asleep — something I considered doing but didn’t want to because my worried head told me it might seem too overeager and now my worried head is telling me this miss is going to count as proverbial “potentially courting” points against me. And I don’t want to get docked at this early stage, when every little thing matters and there’s little room for error.

“I’ll go with the hard liquor. Follow suit,” she says. “Unless you, you know, have stuff going on — or want me to go. I can get out of your hair.”

I laugh and shake my head, attempting to be nonchalant. (I think about making a joke about being happy to have her in my hair while I still have it, before it finishes its recently undertaken job of falling out forever, but cooler heads prevail. Also I have nothing at all to do that day, hence the early morning beverage selection. I’m attempting to choose my own adventure.)

Truth be told I like to be alone, but, and this is rare, I feel like I want her to be around more than I want to sit by myself on my couch and revel in the fact that I “got lucky” last night with someone who is out of my league. It’s not often one so heavily out-kicks his coverage and for me it’s generally customary that if and when I do I go solitary to reflect upon it instead of spending more consecutive time with the woman I’ve been with, so as to not scare her off so early in the proceedings, as is my tendency.

“It’s honestly embarrassing how little I have to do today,” I say.

“Oh, so spending some of it with me is like a consolation prize?”

“Hey. Far from it. To say the least.”

“Hey. I’m just fucking with you.”

“Noted. I have orange juice if you want that instead. With the vodka, of course.”

“Oh, you do?”

I open up the refrigerator to replace the seltzer bottle and fish out a carton from toward the back, making my way around and past several takeout containers that have become more souvenir or science experiment than anything else at this point. I present the orange juice like it’s a fine champagne or something and when she asks me if it’s pulpy I check the label and see when it expired and tell her that it wasn’t initially but likely is now.

“It’s, uh — it’s kind of a vintage,” I say. “Well-aged. Expired last May.”

“Soda water it is, then,” she says, coming my way and throwing her arms around me. We kiss and I’m thinking about how glad I am I had the foresight to brush my teeth as soon as I got out of bed.

Judging by her breath she has done the same. I choose not to wonder if she carried a toothbrush in her purse, or took it upon herself to use mine. If it’s the latter, ignorance is bliss, i guess.

“You smell nice,” she says and I say, “Likewise,” and she says, “Don’t worry, I didn’t use your toothbrush,” and I say, “I didn’t think you did,” and she says, “I carried one in my purse last night, presumptuous as that may sound,” and I say, “Do you always do that?” and she says, “No, I threw it in my bag last-minute, might still have been wet,” and I say, “Oh, okay,” and she says, “I don’t know — you never really know,” and I say, “If that ain’t the truth,” and then we both laugh a little bit.

“I guess now I’m kinda glad about the orange juice,” she says, “or lack-thereof. Tastes like absolute garbage after you’ve just brushed your teeth.”

I get her a proper glass made of glass and start making her drink.

“Sometimes things just work out,” I say. “What do you want to do today?”

“What are your thoughts on just hanging out here for a while, having a few little talks?”