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eight thousand
words. That’s crazy.”
    “That’s nothing. What, like eighteen pages?”
    “Yes, actually. Exactly eighteen pages. How did you do
that?”
    “My entire major is writing.”
    “Why? Why would you subject yourself to that?”
    “Are you really looking at corporate law? You better get
used to writing all the time.”
    “Shit.”
     
    We talked about her childhood dog:
     
    “That’s a fake name.”
    “Rover? No, it’s not.”
    “It’s so cliché that no one uses it. And no one should use
it.”
    “I named him when I was six!”
    “I am judging six year old you.”
     
    And we talked about my secret underground gambling ring:
     
    “Three of my professors are in on it.”
    “Three? Which three?”
    “Okay, Miss Journalist: I’m drunk, but I’m not that drunk.”
     
    Before I knew it, we were rushing up the steps of her fourth
floor walkup. I waited for the moment she would open the door to her apartment
and I would push her up against the wall and crush her mouth with my own. I
thought about what she would taste like: the whiskey, the beer, the curried
popcorn we had been snacking on for hours. I saw the entire evening play out,
the way my evenings normally did. We’d throw each other around for a bit, maybe
break a few lamps or vases in the process, and then we’d bid each other
goodnight and never speak of it again. It seemed to be exactly what we needed
to break the tension between the two of us.
     
    But as she pushed her door open, something stopped me. I
couldn’t go through with it. It was pathetic, but I couldn’t play out my
fantasy. I froze.
     
    “This is a nice place you got here.” I half-jokingly
admired, just to get out of my head. I’d put the entire apartment at about four
hundred square feet but that was totally a guess, as I never did see the
bedroom. The “kitchen” was lined up against the wall, and a small baker’s rack
separated it from the open living room. The walls were an ugly sort of yellow,
and the cracks in the ceiling had me more than a bit worried that the roof
would cave in at any moment.
    “Shut up. What, do you have some sort of four bedroom
brownstone waiting for you?” She turned to me, very accusatory.
    “Something like that.” I gave her a side grin. She didn’t
need to know just how much nicer my living quarters were compared to hers.
    “Oh my God. You just made a choice not to brag, and I’m
pretty sure it was so you wouldn’t hurt my feelings. Who are you and what did
you do with Teddy?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I spent an entire summer writing about you. I know you have
a ridiculous twenty-seven room mansion.”
    “Oh.”
    “And you just…” She slowed her words as she moved closer to
me. “…Made a decision not to flaunt your wealth. I’m impressed.”
    “I told you I wasn’t as bad as you made me out to be.” I
lightly jested, but in reality, I knew it was only because I was with her. I
would’ve gladly boasted of my upper west side home to anyone who would listen.
    “So, you’re in my apartment. What happens next?” You’d think
she was trying to flirt with me, but the way she said it was more of an
interview question.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not stupid, Teddy. This is where you’re supposed to
throw me up against the wall and stick your tongue down my throat for a bit,
until we eventually end up breaking a few of my glass trinkets while we have
our inevitable one night stand.”
     
    For the longest time when looking back at that night I
assumed I must have, in my drunken state, admitted my fantasy aloud. But as I
lived it for the second time, I realized that wasn’t the case. I didn’t speak
those words; she came up with them on her own. Either she read my mind, or she
had done so much research on me that she knew the route of my sexual escapades.
Either way, she took me completely by surprise. I didn’t know if I was turned
on or turned off.
     
    “It’s not