Gorgeous Part-time Lover won’t let me post anything about him on blogs, but he won’t let me write about crushes or other guys either. “Well who am I supposed to write about then?” I asked.  “People will think I don’t have a love life at all.”  But he says he doesn’t care.  This afternoon I got an email from him, with a subject line that read “I miss you…” but then it included a pasted link to American Apparel, and of the short shorts I’d worn that day. I almost thought we’d had a real moment there, but then the racy pictures of AA weakened it.

Somehow Gorgeous Part-time Lover starts texting when he knows that I’m gonna be out, like  tonight.  “Be careful” he’ll write or, “Be safe”.  And then I’ll start looking over my shoulder with my beer, thinking that something is looming in behind me.  It’s hard not to at Lexington Market.  We had the after bike fest 80’s rock party where I wanted to get into it and dive in.  But I kept seeing the granite fixtures and deep stainless sinks of the Ruxton Road house from days before.  I’d served pitchers of beer, carafes of wine, and table food to Ms. Blueberry’s faves.  It was her book party and we got a free copy of her signed book if we worked.  I was dressed in black and white, hand-me-downs from Elizabeth’s Potluck/Clothes Swap. I felt completely underprivleged, out of my element.  I kept snacking on bacon rapped figs, and brie quiche with Tyler.

I saw Super Cool Professor playing the drums and willing to show me how.  I asked if he’d listened to the Throwing Muses and other Boston bands,back in the 90’s.  He kept playing the drums though, incoherent to the rest of the mix and me.  I listened into a conversation of the hostess then,  talking about the rituals of planning a daughter’s wedding.  I couldn’t help but look out at the deer that probably loved her yard.  At the moment it was being mowed over for smooth grass, but it looked safe and the rest of the house  looked tall behind it.

I was the last one to leave.  Me and Gina stacked up the 40 glasses next to used ones by the kitchen sink, and we dumped more have plates into a trashcan.  I sampled the lavendar soap in the bathroom and I snuck packets of lemon lotion samples from a side table. I would have been more open to talking to the hostess, if she hadn’t have been wearing a pink fuschia blouse.  She was so upscale and and her hair looked blown-dry.  I copied down the address so I could look it up, right before I caught a glimpse of Ms. Blueberry’s son.  He was so handsome.  After two glasses of sneaking wine, I entertained conversations of me flirting with him in public, in the piano room.  Sigh.  Till next time.


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