Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

He looks surprised. “No? How come?”

I tell him about how both my parents graduated from LWBS, and we chat about our families and our career goals until our third cups of coffee are empty, and the sky beyond the window has turned midnight-blue. We toss our garbage away and stroll toward the door.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Layla.”

“It was nice to meet you, too.” Is that it? That can’t be it. “I hope I’ll see you here next year.”

“You just might,” he says. “At least now there’s an incentive. Besides the coffee. Are you in New York this weekend?”

“I…yes.” As of this second.

“Do you think you’ll have time to get together?”

I try to appear as though this isn’t the question I’ve been waiting for all year. “I don’t see why not. When were you thinking?”

“Dinner on Friday night?”

“I can do dinner.”

He smiles and pulls his PalmPilot from his coat pocket. “Terrific. Want to beam me your number?”

I whip out my Palm and beam it to him.

He kisses me softly on the cheek. “Till then.”

Yes!

Friday, February 13, 5:37 p.m.

Normally I do either the step class or Pilates class. Today I do both.

“Lift that leg,” Gossip, the Pilates instructor, tells me. So I lift.

“Who wants strong legs?” he calls out to the class. I do! I do! In case I have to kick Sharon’s ass.

The nerve of her invading my turf. So what that she doesn’t know I exist? Not true. She must know that I exist, just not that I’m sleeping with her boyfriend. She must have asked him about his learning group. Surely he mentioned me. How does she picture me in her head? I wonder if he described me.

“Hold it, baby, hold it.” The instructor is the most stereotypical gay man I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing pink leggings and a tight purple tank top. He goes by the name, Gossip. Yes, Gossip. It says that on the class schedule.

Maybe Russ told Sharon I was gay. Maybe he told her that Lauren and I are partners. Either that, or he told her I’m ugly. Or stupid.

When Gossip finally tells us to have a fabulous weekend and make sure to make a lot of love, I hit the gym showers. I stuffed my knapsack with all my shower stuff, hair dryer, change of clothes and makeup. I don’t normally bring all that paraphernalia to the gym, but I don’t know what time she’s coming in today. And I can’t have her walking in all dressed up and crossing my path while I look like a shlump. No, way. Russ will obviously be comparing us, the way men must compare their equipment standing at the urinal.

After showering, I blow-dry my hair straight. Then do my best makeup application. I skip the eyeliner, since it scares me despite Layla’s lesson. Sweet Layla. She tried to convince me to come with her to New York.

“No way,” I told her. “I have to check out the competition.” I was lying on her bed watching her pack, drinking tea.

She folded a green shirt into a perfect square and carefully placed it into her suitcase. “You’re being morbid. You’re going to be alone here, miserable. Why do you want to put yourself through that?”

“I’m not running away. Besides, you have a date.”

“I’ll cancel.”

I threw a pillow at her. “Cancel? After we pulled off the best advertising campaign ever? Are you on crack?” I still couldn’t believe we did it. I come up with the best strategies! I must be a strategy whiz. Martin seems to think so, too-he gave me an A on my last assignment. Yes, an A. I almost asked him if he was sure it was my paper.

My strategy for this weekend is to look superhot. I finish blow-drying and admire the effect in the mirror. Beat that, Sharon. As the final touch, I apply my new lipstick. It’s red and called Irresistible. I spent twenty-six dollars on this tube, more than I’ve ever spent on any piece of makeup, so it had better work. I’m wearing my good jeans, and a tight sweater that shows a little cleavage but not enough to make me look slutty. I’m a ten out of ten, if I must say so myself.

I wrap my red puffy jacket tightly around me and head back to the dorm. Not that I have anything to do. Or anyone to do. Layla left me the key to her room. Maybe I’ll borrow her Magic Banana.

I can just imagine telling my germ-phobic friend that I borrowed her most personal of items.

Ew. No, if I were going to use one, I would buy my own. If I were going to use one. Which I’m not. But maybe I should. Maybe it’ll bring on my period, which I haven’t gotten in forever. I stopped taking the pills continuously earlier this week so that I would get it-now that Sharon is here for a few days and I have a sex break, it’s a good time to get it over with-but it didn’t come. What I don’t understand is how Russ hasn’t noticed that I haven’t had it in months. I’m probably just infertile.

Maybe Russ secretly hopes that I’m pregnant?

My running shoes have lost most of their traction and I nearly slip on the ice. I need to buy new shoes. As if I have the money for that.

Almost there. As I’m about to open the door, a cab pulls up in front of the dorm.

There’s a woman in the back seat. My heart stops. Sharon.

7:30 p.m.

Oh, man. She’s late. Why is she late? Better question, why is she still coming? My television is on channel 2, the door channel. I’m watching for her arrival. I can’t believe I didn’t tell her not to come. I should have insisted on buying a plane ticket and going home for the weekend, instead of putting Kimmy through this.

Nick hurries into the foyer. Then he searches his pocket for the key, drops it, picks it up and goes inside. Bastard is still tanned from Australia. Maybe he’s fake tanning.

On Monday I thought I was getting out of it. Sharon called me with the flu. I recommended she stay home and get better. I’d even come to see her. She said, no way. She’d get better.

She got better.

I open my food drawer to see if there’s anything worth eating. I’ve already finished a bag of chips and a liter of warm Pepsi that was stashed under my bed.

I was hoping that Kimmy would take off for the weekend. Meeting up in the bathroom might be mildly uncomfortable. Though meeting up in my room could be fun, the three of us rolling around on my skinny bed.

Yeah, right.

Maybe I should break up with Sharon. Maybe I should break up with Kimmy.

Maybe I should make a goddamn decision.

I pace the length of my room. It’s not long enough for a good pace. I’d like to pace the hallway, but Sharon needs to buzz from downstairs to get in. I’ve been stuck in this room for an hour. I have to take a piss.

Kimmy is in the foyer. Her hair is shining, and she’s about to unlock the door, when someone enters, rolling a suitcase.

Sharon.

Shit.

Kimmy turns around and stares. Does she know? Sharon’s lips are moving. She seems to be asking Kimmy a question. Kimmy nods and says something back. I think I’m going to hurl. What are they saying? It’s V-Day, not D-Day!

Kimmy unlocks the door, and Sharon follows her inside.

What do I do?

I pick at my face.

Knock, knock.

I am not opening that door. What if Kimmy spilled the beans? And now they’re both standing there waiting to roast me?

“One sec,” I say, and I open it.

It’s Sharon. Just Sharon. No one else in sight. She’s smiling, her hair moist from melting snowflakes, and she looks beautiful. I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. She smells like home. Actually she smells like airplane. In mid-hug I twirl her around to scan the room to insure that everything is presentable. Bed made. Drawers closed. No boxers on the floor. No condoms, God forbid. I kick the door closed. We’re kissing, more kissing, it’s her, here, she tastes perfect, her shirt is off, my shirt is off, our pants are off.