Danielle was a friend. Just a friend. Just a friend with a boyfriend...who knew me...and was a lot bigger than me. Yes, definitely just a friend.
Danielle was just a friend who was unhappy in her relationship. I knew her boyfriend and did not think well of him. He was nice enough when he wanted to be, but he thought it was funny to act...no, he delighted in being a prick. He would tell people horrible things about themselves whether true or not. The chance to gain the ire of all around was always too much for him to resist. Danielle did not mind this about him, I did.
About a month ago, she called me to talk at me. Yes, at. She talked for an hour about what she didn't like about Randall and what she was really looking for. I'd like to say that I gave her good counseling, but the fact is, I didn't say much more than a handful of carefully and quickly wedged-in words.
"What would you think about...you and me?" she asked, smacking me squarely in the face with this verbal knuckleball.
"No, no. You're with Randall. You owe him. At least talk to him about all of this;" I finished the sentence silently: Even if he is a dick. "Talk to him. Tell him how you feel, let him know what you want. He's a guy. We're stupid. We can't read what you want. We're not wired that way. If you walked up to us and hit us in the face with a baseball, we still wouldn't know it was you unless you autographed the ball."
"But," she started before I cut her off. "You need to talk to him," I said not giving her the chance to get in another word. "And, after you talk, call me. Let me know how it went."
A couple of Fridays later, I was at my second home: the Dugout. It's a great bar with a dance floor at the other end that I'm an expert at avoiding. But the drink specials allowed me to be my gregarious self; buying pitchers for everyone as well as fries and nachos. I figured, I was making decent money and had no one to spend it on. Besides, for 50 bucks once a week, I was everyone's hero.
While at "the Dug," No problem was ever really a problem, especially when you tipped Bethy well (or any of the other waitresses). However, when you're not that big a guy and are usually in the middle of multiple conversations at once, there will always be someone who thinks you're a target. I lost track of how many times I was pushed, shoved, or otherwise manhandled, and then rescued by just about any nearby random individual I was either there with or that was an employee. I guess you could say I was The Dug's official mascot.
That particular Friday night, I was having a great time talking with people when Danielle runs up to me and drags me towards the dance floor. Of course, I adamantly resisted my way right into the middle of the flashing lights and loud music. It is not like I had never danced with her before. I danced with practically everyone. After all, I had to be equally nice. It was just never more than one dance and then I retreated right back from whence I came.
The thumping music was fast, the lights were brightly "dark" and she was grinding against my leg as she told me what Randall did THIS time. "I'm done with him. If he thinks he is getting his stuff back..." As usual, I was quickly falling into the counselor role. But, how do you counsel someone when they are rubbing their pelvis into your hip?
Sunday morning, Dani called needing someone to talk to. She started out with "We talked and he knows it is over." That was it. There was nothing to prevent some sort of a tryst except maybe her making a serious invitation.
She invited me over to watch movies and drink Sunday morning mimosas, as long as I brought the orange juice...and the vodka. A mimosa is perhaps the healthiest drink. You get your vitamin C AND you can be assured that the alcohol will have killed off anything harmful. Who could refuse an offer like that? So, my bottle of Absolute and I got in the car, picked up a container of orange juice at the market, and headed over.
We started off with a cheesy movie that soon lost our interest and quickly pivoted to her favorite topic: Randall. Only this time, with a fair amount of coaching by Mr. Absolute, she grew more scathing. Apparently, Randal was not all that well-endowed. That was information I neither had nor needed. But, by now, my tongue, like the vodka, was flowing. "Just how big do you think big is?"
"Over 7 inches," she replied.
"Good," I said in an exaggerated sigh. "I'm in the clear. Barely"
