The Literary Girlfriend: The Uncomfortable Conversation
Even though I try to be tactful, sometimes there is no easy way for a guy to say something to a woman. It’s tough to tell a lady she has bad breath. It’s impolite to tell a female she has a booger dangling out of her nose. And I had no idea how I was going to tell a hot chick in a clingy t-shirt that I’d been holding on to her panties for the last month. But I was determined to do it.
I was returning home from work on a weeknight when I saw her. I was parking my car in the tenant’s covered section in the middle of the lot, and as I glanced to my right, I spotted a hot chick in tight jeans. I wasn’t sure if it was the right hot chick, but the jeans looked like they belonged to a hot chick.
Side view glances can be misleading, so I stopped my car in mid-turn into my spot so that I didn’t sideswipe the car next to me while I was checking her out. Sure enough, it was the hot chick, in tight faded jeans and a black t-shirt. She opened the trunk to a red sports car about 10 car lengths from me in the diagonal guest parking section. She bent over, but I was too far away from her to enjoy it, and she picked up a box, threw it into the trunk, slammed the trunk door shut, and power-walked away into the labyrinth of sidewalks through our apartment complex.
I was pretty sure it was her (long, wavy dark hair and light brown skin), but her body language was different. In the laundry room, she had strolled leisurely (until she had found out that there was only one dryer and I had already claimed it). Now she was darting around on a mission. I carefully resumed parking, and as I was shutting off the engine, I saw the hot chick already returning to her car.
Whatever was going on, the hot chick walked with purpose. She threw another box into the trunk, slammed it shut, and stormed back toward the driver’s side of her car. I didn’t have time to think about what to say. I jumped out of my car and ran toward her, yelling:
“Hey! Hey! Excuse me! Hey!”
She turned toward me in a defensive stance, both fists tight, her eyes narrowed right at me. “What!” she said.
I stopped. I even backed up with my open hands in the air. Her sharp tone kept me from checking her bra status, which would have been difficult with her black t-shirt anyway. I maintained eye contact. Yeah, this woman had flawless brown skin and curves perfect for jeans, but she was also angry, and it’s not a good idea to get caught checking out a pissed off hot chick.
“Hey, I’m the guy you shared the dryer with a few weeks ago,” I stated carefully.
“What are you talking about?” she said, not blinking. This close, I could see that the edges of her eyes were red.
I took a step back and said, “I’m the guy with the monotone voice.”
She squinted even more, but looked at my tie and then my shoes. When we had met in the laundry room, I’d been sick. I had worn rancid casual clothes, was unshaven, and probably had a nasal stream flowing to my upper lip. This evening, however, I was in my professional attire: long sleeved button down shirt, tastefully colorful tie, khaki slacks, and polished dress shoes. My hair even looked good, gelled back enough to have life but not so much that it seemed slick. When I dressed up, I was probably in the top 50% of my age bracket appearance-wise (I was in my mid-20s back then), but I had to work to get there.
This hot chick, on the other hand, was top 1% without even trying.
“I remember you,” she said, but it took a moment. She dropped her hands a little.
“I wasn’t at my best, that day we met,” I explained. “Anyway, you left some clothes… well, underwear… in the dryer, and I still have them.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s what this is about?” she said. “I thought you were a mugger or some pervert pretending to be a photographer.”
“No, I’m not a pervert photographer,” I laughed nervously. “I just have your panties…. I mean, undergarments. I’ve kept them since the other day.”
“The other day? That was a month ago,” she stated.
“Three weeks and four days,” I said, looking away. “I promise, I didn’t know I had them. I was sick, and didn’t fold my laundry for a few days. I just didn’t want you to think I was the kind of guy who would keep your underwear.”
She didn’t respond. I felt really uncomfortable, so I changed the subject. “Those guys who say they’re photographers, I was wondering, are they really photographers?”
“I don’t know,” the hot chick said. “I always tell them to fuck off.”
I was surprised at her language, but then I remembered how she had over-cursed in the laundry room. The good thing about the pervert photographer topic is that it was even more awkward than talking about women’s undergarments, so I went back.
“Let me go get your … items,” I said. “They’re okay to wear. I mean, they’re okay for YOU to wear. I promise, I didn’t wear them or do anything weird with them.”
“This is funny,” she said with just a trace of a smile. “All this shit’s going on in my life, and you’re worried about my panties.”
“Just stay right here,” I said quickly. “I’ll be right back with them.”
She studied my shoes and then made eye contact again. “No, I’ll walk over with you,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I said. “I mean, it’s okay if you do, but don’t get the wrong idea about me when you see all the photography equipment around my place.”
“You’re kidding,” she said, but not as a question. She knew I was kidding.
“Yes, I am,” I said, nodding. I turned around and walked back toward the covered parking in the direction of my apartment. I was surprised when the hot chick actually followed me.
The hot chick in a clingy black t-shirt was coming over to my apartment. And I hadn’t had a chance to clean it up yet.
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Small Talk And I promise the hot chick finally gets a name. I mean it!