The sun is peeking through the blinds and hitting my eyes like a two-pronged fork of golden evilness. I attempt to turn away, but there’s no escape that won’t result in waking Simon. And let’s be honest. I wore that sweet young thing out last night. He needs his rest. Gingerly, I peel myself away from him and crawl out of the bed. I go in search of the bathroom. I’m not like the heroines I read about, the ones who can wake up and roll over and have hot kinky sex with no fear of morning breath. Nope. I’m a wake-up-and-pee kind of gal. Predictably, it’s an easy left turn out of the bedroom. Also predictably, it’s a decorative nightmare. Instead of man-eating sunflowers or gargantuan roses, it’s tropical fish. More tropical fish than they’ve got at the National Aquarium, I’m sure. There are fish—huge fish—on the shower curtain and the bath mat and fish stickers on the walls. There’s a piranha nightlight, and I wonder if they had to special order that?
I find mouthwash under the counter and floss in the drawer. I’m tempted to head back to bed, but instead, I venture into the kitchen in search of coffee. I’m attempting to make sense of Simon’s fancy coffee maker when I hear a faint buzzing coming from the direction of the living room. I know without a doubt that it’s my mother. I abandon my coffee mission for a new one, and I’m pleased to find my phone in between the couch cushions. I palm it and pad back into the kitchen, determined to make a cup of coffee. Oh, and maybe some breakfast. I’m no slouch in the kitchen, and I’m prepared to give Simon’s nana a run for her money, but my phone buzzes again, signaling yet another text from my mother. Seven texts before 7 a.m.? Cinnamon rolls will have to wait.
I read through the barrage of messages, half-convinced they’re a joke. But no, nothing funny about these texts. Only my mother could ruin the best twelve hours of my adult life.
And to think, only moments ago, I was blissed-out in Simon’s bed. I’d momentarily forgotten our age gap. I’d forgotten my crow’s feet and ignored the banging drum also known as my biological clock. I’d ignored all that and I’d had fun. And sex. Lots of sex.
And yet, with a few well-chosen words, my mother has totally killed that buzz.
Mom: Did you know that after you reach the age of thirty-five, your eggs dry up at an alarming rate?
Mom: Elaine, did you get that?
Mom: Fine, ignore your mother. But you can’t ignore science. Did you know that, at your age, infertility rates skyrocket as do birth defect risks?
Mom: A single woman your age is more likely to get hit by lightning than to get married and have children.
Mom: Call Aunt Judith. Her birthday is tomorrow. She’s also an old maid and has no children to celebrate with her.
Mom: Cheryl Whitestone’s daughter was too old to have children, so she adopted a Russian baby. It cost more than your house.
Mom: I guess your brother and the Ice Queen will have to make me a grandmother, since you’re clearly not inclined.
Typically, I’d laugh at the hypocrisy of my mother calling Victoria an ice queen. In reality, they’re both frosty bitches. Instead, I find myself in sunflower hell, with tears streaming down my face, as I scroll through my mom’s list of “facts.” They’re mean. Cruel, even. And though she hasn’t cited her sources, Patrice Madigan knows how to make a point. Sure, there’s questionable science behind those venomous words, but you don’t need solid facts to make somebody feel like shit.
The tea towel on the oven door features a smiling, wide-eyed sunflower, and it scares the hell out of me, so I pull a paper towel from the near-empty roll and wipe my face. Simon will soon be out of paper towels. I’ll soon be out of fertile eggs. Well, I can’t do much about the latter right now, but the former is within my reach. I grab a pen from the cup on the counter (yes, it’s a Wookie pen) and I write “paper towels” on the pad that hangs on the fridge. My flowery scrawl stands out beneath Simon’s square, neatly written “pop tarts” and “dish soap.” The white fridge door also holds a sombrero magnet fromThat’s Nacho Tacoand a calendar flipped to October. Yoda’s on the calendar, of course.
I’m nosy, so I scan the contents. Dentist appointment two weeks ago. Attention to dental hygiene is always a good sign. He had his car inspected earlier this month, and he dog sat for Meg last weekend. According to his calendar, he has dinner with Duncan and Betsy every Thursday. Tuesday evenings are reserved for trivia, and he plays poker every Saturday night and Ultimate Frisbee every Sunday at 10.
My phone pings with another text, and I’m flooded with the need to get out of here. The sunflowers are closing in on me, and I’m looking at hard copy evidence of Simon’s orderly, uncluttered life. He has his friends and his family and his sister’s dog. Surely, he doesn’t need to be weighed down by a nearly thirty-five year old woman whose eggs are drying up?
What the hell am I doing here? I’m thirty-four. I’m way too old to be standing in some guy’s kitchen wearing his t-shirt and trying to recall morning-after etiquette. I’m way too old for a one-night stand or even a casual relationship. As much as I hate to admit it, my mother has a point.
I need to find someone my age who wants what I want. I should be spending Sunday mornings eating brunch and sharing the paper with my age-appropriate, slightly-balding, imaginary spouse, not watching my hot young boyfriend play Ultimate Frisbee in the park.
And clearly, Simon wants a dog. He dog-sits for his sister and hangs out at parks and carries a messenger bag. And I think I spotted a fence beyond the garage as we came in last night. These signs all point directly to dog.
And I don’t want to be a dog mom. I want to be a human mom. A baby mama. And it would be wildly unfair of me to ask him to change his lifestyle just to suit my needs and the tick-tock of my biological clock.
My phone dings again.Come on, Patrice, give it a rest.You’ve made your point, I think to myself. I don’t read her latest messages. I know what they’ll say, just as surely as I know that they’re from her, rather than texts from Molly or a reminder from the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions.
I’ve got to get out of here. I should probably write a note, but I don’t even know where to start. And it’s 7:30 already. Surely, he’ll be waking up soon, and I don’t want to get caught working on draft #3 of my Dear John letter at his kitchen table. Before I lose all resolve or think again about his smile or his incredibly talented hands or the way he makes me laugh—dammit! I grab my bag, pull on my skirt, my boots, and my coat, and hightail it to the curb. Once there, I remember that we walked here from the bar. Glad I wore boots with a low heel, and eternally grateful for the long coat that shields my bare legs and stolen t-shirt, I embark on my walk of shame back to Snark. And, no, no, I’m not wearing underwear. There’s no time for underwear.
I’M NO STRANGER TOwaking up alone. I’ve done it nearly every day of my life. But today, it’s different. And fucking lonely.
Lanie’s absence is apparent before I even climb out of bed. The room feels larger somehow. Emptier. Quieter, too. I walk out into the living room, hoping she’s here, and, honestly, hoping she made coffee.
No such luck on either count.
I shake my head to clear it, and then, as if to torture myself, I mentally replay last night’s events. We met up for drinks. There was flirting. I felt her up outside the bar, frat-boy style. We walked back to my place and christened the kitchen, my bedroom, the couch around 3 a.m., and the bedroom again. I’m guessing we fell asleep for good around 4:30 and a glance at the clock tells me it’s now 10 o’clock.
Ok, that means that sometime in the past six hours, Lainie left.
Yeah, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes, I know.
Where the hell did she go? Maybe she had a pre-dawn meeting? A hair appointment? Maybe she woke up at a decent hour and didn’t have the patience to wait for my lazy ass to get out of bed? Any of these scenarios is totally plausible. I’m not panicking.
I’m not.
