“Ah, William…so that’s your name…how very white of you.”
“Ha,” he scoffed, buttoning his white shirt, extending his hand forward, “and you are?”
“I’m the girl you fucked last night.” I say, pocketing my keys and swinging my messenger bag over my shoulder.
“Well,” he laughs, “making his way towards me only to pierce his tongue through my lips while his hand wanders down my yoga pants, “call me so you can be the girl I fuck Friday night after dinner. I’m a dessert person myself.”
“Or I could be the girl you fuck before your ‘thing’.” I say deviously pulling him back into bed.
Cue me running down the street, attempting to get my hair into a ponytail.
“You’re late.” the cutout observes.
“You changed your shirt,” I laugh, taking the tray out of his hands, “What table?”
“Two ballerinas,” he says, pointing towards the mirror.
I deliver the nonfat lattes and hurry back to the counter.
“So, how was it?” he asks.
“It was amaaaaaaazing!”
“Yes! We’re going to dinner Friday night.” I say, swooning.
“Funny,” he says, sauntering over the schedule, “because I think you’re working Friday night.”
“I don’t know,” I sign, making my best puppy dog face, “am I?”
“Lauren…” he sighs.
“Aw, come on Joe!” I whine.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” he laughs, shaking his head from side to side.
I leap over the counter and squeeze him tightly, “Get back to work.”
I spend the rest of my shift talking to Lyla about my handsome stranger’s moves between the sheets, debating how long I should wait to call him. If I call him Monday, I seem to eager and it gives him time to cancel. If I call Wednesday, there’s a chance he’s already made plans. However, he was the one who suggested Friday. So I took a shot in the dark, and decide to call Friday afternoon.