Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

“Sure you can,” Maxi urged, yanking me out of the basement and into the tequila-soaked present. “Tell me the worst thing about him.”

“He was really sloppy.”

She crinkled her nose adorably. “That’s not that bad.”

“Oh, you have no idea! He had all this hair, see, and it would get in the shower drain, and he’d never clean his shower, but every once in a while he’d just, like, scoop up a clump of this disgusting, awful, soap-scummy hair and, like, park it in a corner of the tub. The first time I saw it I screamed.”

We did another shot. Maxi’s cheeks were flushed bright, her eyes were gleaming.

“Also,” I continued, “also he had disgusting toenails.” I burped, as delicately as I could, against the back of my hand. “They were all yellow and thick and raggedy…”

“Fungus,” said Maxi knowledgeably.

“And then there was his minibar,” I said, warming to the task. “Every time his parents went on a plane, they’d bring him those mini-bottles of vodka and scotch. He’d keep them in a shoebox, and whenever anyone would come over for a drink, he’d say, ‘Have something from the minibar.’ ” I paused, considering. “Actually, that was kind of cute.”

“I was going to say,” agreed Maxi.

“But it got annoying after a while. I mean, I’d come over, I’d have a terrible headache, I’d just want a vodka and tonic, and off he’d go to the minibar. I think he was just too cheap to shell out for an actual bottle of his own.”

“Tell me,” asked Maxi. “Was he really good in bed?”

I tried to prop my head in my hand, but my elbow wasn’t doing its job, and I wound up almost bouncing my forehead off the bar. Maxi laughed at me. The bartender scowled. I asked for a glass of water. “You wanna know the truth?”

“No, I want you to lie to me. I’m a movie star. Everyone else does.”

“The truth,” I said, “the truth is that…”

Maxi was laughing, leaning in close. “C’mon, Cannie, let me have it.”

“Well, he was very willing to try new things, which I appreciated…”

“Come on. No editori… editorial…” She closed her eyes, and her mouth. “No spin. I asked a simple question. Was he any good?”

“The truth” I tried again. “The truth is that he was very… small.”

Her eyes widened. “Small, you mean… down there?”

“Small,” I repeated. “Tiny. Microscopic. Infinitesimal!” There. If I could say that word, I couldn’t be as wasted as I thought I was. “I mean, not when it was hard. When it was hard it was pretty normal-sized. But when it was soft, it was like it telescoped back into his body, and it just looked like this little…” I tried to say it, but I was laughing too hard.

“What? C’mon, Cannie. Stop laughing. Sit up straight. Tell me!”

“Hairy acorn,” I finally managed. Maxi whooped. Tears came to her eyes, and somehow I was sideways, my head in her lap. “Hairy acorn!” she repeated.

“Shh!” I shushed her, trying to maneuver myself upright.

“Hairy acorn!”

“Maxi!”

“What? Do you think he’s going to hear me?”

“He lives in New Jersey,” I said very seriously.

Maxi climbed onto the bar and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Attention, bar patrons,” she called. “Hairy Acorn resides in New Jersey.”

“If you’re not gonna show us your tits, then get off the bar!” shouted a drunk guy in a cowboy hat. Maxi very elegantly gave him the finger, then climbed down.

“It could almost be a proper name,” she said. “Harry Acorn. Harry A. Corn.”

“You can’t tell anynone. Anyone,” I slurred.

“Don’t worry. I won’t. And I seriously doubt that me and Mr. Corn travel in the same circles.”

“He lives in New Jersey,” I said again, and Maxi laughed until tequila came out of her nose.

“So basically,” she said, once she’d stopped spluttering, “you’re pining for a guy with a small willy who treated you badly?”

“He didn’t treat me badly,” I said. “He was very sweet… and attentive… and…”

But she wasn’t listening. “Sweet and attentive are a dime a dozen. And so, I’m sorry to inform you, are small willies. You can do better.”

“I have to get over him.”

“So get over him! I insist!”

“What’s the secret?”

“Hate!” said Maxi. “Like I said before.”

But I couldn’t hate him. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Against my will, I remembered something tremendously tender. How once, around Christmas, I’d told him to pretend he was Santa Claus, and I pretended I had come to the mall to have my picture taken. How I’d perched on his lap, taking care to plant my feet firmly on the floor so I wouldn’t rest all my weight on him, and whispered in his ear, “Is it true that Santa comes just once a year?” How he’d laughed, and how he’d gasped when I put one hand against his chest and shoved him flat back on the bed and snuggled against him while he performed an impromptu and doubtlessly off-key rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Here,” said Maxi, shoving a shot of tequila into my hand. “Medicine.”

I gulped it down. She grabbed my chin and stared into my eyes. It looked like there were two of her – saucer-blue eyes, cascading hair, the geometrically perfect sprinkling of freckles, the chin just a shade too pointed, so that she wouldn’t be perfect, but overwhelmingly endearing instead. I blinked, and she turned into one person again. Maxi studied me carefully. “You still love him,” she said. I bowed my head. “Yes,” I whispered.

She let go of my chin. My head hit the bar. Maxi pulled me back upright by my barrettes. The bartender was looking concerned. “I think maybe she’s had enough,” he said. Maxi ignored him.

“Maybe you should call him,” she said.

“I can’t,” I told her, suddenly acutely aware that I was very, very drunk. “I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“There are worse things than just looking foolish,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Losing someone you love, because you’re too proud to call and lay it on the line,” she said. “That’s worse. Now: What’s his number?”

“Maxi…”

“Give me the number.”

“This is a really bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I sighed, suddenly feeling all the tequila pressing against my skull. “Because what if he doesn’t want me?”

“Then it’s better that you know that, once and for all. We can go in like surgeons and cauterize the wound. And I’ll teach you the restorative powers of hating his guts.” She held out the phone. “Now. The number.”

I took the phone. It was a tiny thing, a toy of a telephone, no longer than my thumb. I unfolded it clumsily, and squinted, poking at the digits with my pinkie.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Bruce. It’s Cannie.”

“Hi-ii,” he said slowly, sounding surprised.

“I know this is kinda weird, but I’m in New York, in this bar, and you’ll never guess who I’m here with…”

I paused for a breath. He didn’t say anything.

“I have to tell you something…”

“Um, Cannie…”

“No, I just want, I just need… you just have to lishen. Listen,” I finally managed. The words came in a rush. “Breaking up with you was a mistake. I know that now. And Bruce, I’m so sorry… and I miss you so much, and it’s just getting worse and worse every day, and I know I don’t deserve it, but if you could gimme ’nother chance I’d be so good to you…”

I could hear the springs creak as he shifted his weight on the bed. And someone else’s voice in the background. A female voice.

I squinted at the clock on the wall, behind the dangling bras. It was one in the morning.