"In Which Reality is a Delectable Case of Kismet Bullsh*t"

(Pt. 1)

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"The rational part of my brain understands that everything is random. There are a million possibilities in the universe. Us meeting is just one of those possibilities, and just as meaningless."

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Sophie Kinsella, I Owe You One

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2:35 PM

Encontrarse

"Here you go, ladies. One round of my 'Lola* Clarita's SpecialJuice' ought to kill that hangover."

We merely groan, our faces plastered onto the cold hard surface of the table, with little to no sign of motivation to sluggishly get up. 

All of us were a spectrum of bloodshot eyes and dark circles underneath. Even Tia, despite being on driver-duty. Also, let's not forget the comorbidities of cotton mouth, dried rheum,* diuresis,* and a pasty tint on our faces (which was, hello?! Totally not a good look for fall!)

In spite of this, Sly deftly slides the beer mugs on the table, leaving us with no choice but to get our faces out of the way if we didn't want to be hit. 

We each dip our heads close to the rim of the mugs, seeing what looks like tiny frog eggs and tofu soaked in honey brown pus and garnished with even more tiny frog eggs.

Nah, I'm just messing with you. They're white caviar — I think.

"Thanks, booboo,"*Tamieke says, half-grateful and half-horrified, as he tries not to puke at the drink in front of him.

"And this"— Sly tosses me a roll of bandage strips—"is for your hands."

My hands fly forward, catching it before it hits one of my boobs. I shoot him a dark look.

He merely shrugs and flashes me a toothy grin, emphasizing his broad button-like nose that heightens his boyish charm.

For a skilled waiter-slash-barista, he's a horrible thrower. Although, for someone who's supposed to be snapping back to being sober, I suck as a receiver.

In my defense, I blame it on my glasses and their lack of peripheral support.

"When you said her special juice," Jhett trails off. He straightens up beside me, sneakily pushing the mug towards me instead.

I grimace and push it back towards him.

"Just, don't ask," Tamieke cuts him, speedily taking a big gulp. At this point, he would drink anything if it claims to miraculously cure a hangover within the speed of light.

With bated breath, we watch him closely as his cheeks puff, his throat constricting at the very thought of the liquid entering his digestive tract.

I slam both fists on the table with a mild thud. "Jesus H. Christ! Either you vomit or you don't. The indecision is annoying the hell out of us!" 

He finally swallows it, his protruded eyes watering. He makes a nonchalant tilt with his head and licks the sticky corners of his lips.

"It isn't... that bad — except for that weird mouthfeel."

I scrunch my nose. "Too bad, I'm a coward who'd rather suffer all morning than vomit on the spot."

Meanwhile, Sly watches him. His dark brown eyes are visibly impressed — and what might be in wonder.

Lips twitching, he lays a hand on Tamieke's shoulder, lingering a second more than necessary. "If you need anything, feel free to call me."

Jhett and Emile wait until he is out of earshot before they huddle close to the table and bombard Tamieke with speculative looks and wagging brows. 

Despite barely having the last of (what I could just guess) the slimy mouthfeel of the juice, Tamieke flashes us a naughty grin.

"I don't know where Oz gets his staff, but y-a-a-as-s!" he hums appreciatively in a deep bass voice as he licks  every inch of Sly's bronze skin with his eyes.

Jhett peers at our hot and very single waiter who was charming the panties off of a group of college girls from a few tables over.

"He's okay," he says in sheer disinterest, not really interested in lankily-built men.

"Are you kidding me?" Emile sputters and begins to gesture at every waiter in the vicinity — and every man, in general. "This place has skinny bods, muscle bods, beer bods, and dad bods. What kind of bod is there to ask for?"

"One with a lot of money," Jhett straightly replies, because that is the most important thing to look for in a relationship.

Tia, who had been on good-friend duty this entire time, gently props the back of Kiana's head with her hand in motherly support. In her other hand was a mug of the sickly concoction.

"Here you go, Keke. Drink up," she coos to a dazed Keke. "Er, you need to let go of the burrito now, luv."

Kiana nuzzles her cheek further into the doughy surface of the burrito, her eyes resembling the shape of two crescent moons glazed in childlike glee. "This burrito is so soft. It's like rubbing against a pupper's* underbelly, but without the fur."

"Or, without the warmth of life," I mumble drily, taking out the beans and slices of onion and tomato from my burrito.

Kiana pauses and turns to me, her soft smile wobbles into a frown while tears threaten to form in her eyes."What?"

Tia clicks her tongue at me in disapproval.

"Don't mind her. Just drink up"— she tilts the mug down for Keke to swallow its gross content. "There you go, poppet. Nice and easy."

Kiana takes a few more swigs when her phone decides to ring its factory-reset ringtone. 

She apparently doesn't seem to hear this. The ringing gets annoyingly louder.

I wave at her face. "Hey, Keke, your phone's ringing.".

This jolts her back into panic mode. Scrambling off her seat, she frantically searches for her phone in one of her pockets. 

She almost fell down on her butt if it wasn't for Tamieke catching her in the nick of time.

"Damn, sis!* What's the matter with you?!"

She throws us an alarmed look. "What time is it, and where's my phone?!"

She spots her phone near a plate of nachos and makes a grab for it.

I snatch it before she can.

Keke lunges across Tia's other side, hair flying in the air, desperately reaching for her phone.

I raise my arm higher to placate her. "Rela-a-ax, Sushi. You don't need to give Vaughn"—

"Shawn," Tia corrects.

I cock my head. "Whatever-his-name-is a full report of what you've been up to. You signed up to be his girlfriend, not as a personal assistant at his beck and call."

She stiffens, her face uncertain. "But"—

Tamieke crosses his arms on the table with a raised brow. "Rebel's got a point. We don't see him telling you whatever crack he's been in, do you?"

She considers this for a second. She knew that we knew that I knew I was right. Her boyfriend was a selfish opportunistic asshole with sick control issues.

DITCH Rule #13: If your partner demands an entire account of your activities while keeping shut about their own, it's either they're asserting dominance and/or gaslighting you from knowing their own indiscretions.

"I guess you have a point," she finally concedes, returning to her seat.

I hand her phone over, and she stuffs it into her jacket pocket.

"It's so cute when you see a short girl with a tall guy," Jhett muses distractedly, effectively changing the flow of the topic.

A few meters from us was a sickly sweet couple that just passed by the maître d'.

The guy was at least a foot taller than the girl. Huh, it makes you wonder how she takes all of 'that' in her — and by that, I mean his 'little friend.' 

And by his 'little friend', I meant his attitude.

JK, I meant his dick!

They settle down in one of the nearby tables, lost in their own little bubble. It wasn't long before the girl — who turns out to be a tiny lil' wild cat, who knew! — attacks his mouth with lust-filled fervor.

"Damn, girl!" Tamieke whistles.

Not to be outdone, he takes control and buries her into his arms. Ooh, they're really going at it!

"It's like watching a care bear swallow a Barbie doll," Emile cringes, his face scrunching into a look of disgust. "Dear Lord, somebody hand me a Visine* for my eyes!"

Tamieke snorts. "Hunty,* you've watched racier scenes like this."

Emile scoffs, flipping his long blonde hair over his shoulder. "Yeah, between two men with better acting."* 

I glance at Tia. It's her family's bistro, isn't she gonna do something?

Tia sighs, closing a menu booklet. "As long as they're just snogging* and not shagging,* we can tolerate them. I doubt Sly or any of the staff would let anything get out of hand."

"I think it's cute seeing a large guy dating a petite girl," Kiana says with a sheepish smile , joining Jhett in watching over the unsuspecting hormonal couple in their free-for-all spit-swapping exhibition.

I snort. "You won't think like that when you see what's left for my kind."

"Height doesn't matter," Tia reasons.

"Says the girl who's 5'6"," I mutter, the men's ideal height for a woman. "Hate to be a sour catty bitch, but guys don't exactly go for tall girls. They go for petite girls who are delicate as fuck in need of protection to satisfy their masculine ego."

Tia quickly waves it off, her face aghast. "Poppycock!* You've got the looks and the height of a VS angel* and the curves I would die for."

"Trust me, I would willingly give you some of my excess fat if I could," I mumble.

I knew as a friend, she views it as her job to make me feel comfortable and confident in my own skin. The problem is, I'm just not with my current get-up.

I feel the cardigan she loaned me stretch further at my armpits and back, the seams cutting through my skin and exposing tell-tale bulges of fat. Even her silk button-up shirt on me doesn't fare any better.

I had to keep my breathing in check, or else risk expanding my chest and popping the buttons open. Fucking female fashion.

"The point is" — she breathes through her pert nose — "men are as equally attracted to tall long-legged women as they are with petite girls."

"Ri-i-ight," I drawl mockingly. "Maybe for a quick fuck. Or, someone to hold their umbrella for them. Or, to prove that they're not as insecure about their height. Or, tuck them in bed at night and read them a bedtime story."

I flash her a triumphant smile. I can seriously do this all day.

Lucky for her, I wasn't in the mood to further my earnest declaration of hopeless inferiority.

Tia rolls her eyes.

"Well, maybe you should drop the cow act* and stop looking at each guy who passes by like you're going to murder him. Then maybe, you would actually meet someone worthwhile," she retorts in a quid-pro-quo fashion.

"Maybe I would if he's at least 6'4"."

Tia clicks his tongue. "You and your outrageous standards."

Something behind me catches her eye, sending her luscious lips to quirk into an impish smile. 

"Lucky for you, there's one even better."

I narrow my eyes on her. I don't like that look. Pretty, but still, I don't like it. "And that would be?"

"195 cm. Studmuffin with a divine arse. Two o'clock," she nods.

I stare at her blankly.

"Six-foot-six inches," she dumbs it down with a sigh. "Americans."*

Images of the giant guy with his equally gigantic dick from earlier flood throughout my mind. My vagina throbs in pain just from by thinking about it.

I bite my lip. "Hard pass. I'd rather get eleven hours of sleep than anyone."

"What you need is a good eleven inches inside you," Emile smartly points out, obviously losing interest in the couple necking each other.

My vaginal muscles clench in response to the sexual innuendo. I shrug it off and adjust my glasses up my nose. "What I need is soup." And a couple of vaginal dilators.*

I whirl around and make a motion for Sly at the bar when my eyes meet his — and the breath stolen from my lungs. 

Long wavy blonde hair in neutral shades of ash, silver, and gold cascade a few inches down his heavily-muscled shoulders. He was tall with a Greek god-like musculature in homeless clothing. He was also the most gorgeous man I've ever seen.

Okay, that was an exaggeration — the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in person, was more like it.

His scarred brow furrows with its unblemished counterpart, framing his stunningly captivating argent blue eyes enhanced by their dark rims. His full kissable lips are pursed with tension.

Even while brooding at the corner, he was oozing raw sexuality — unpackaged and undisguised — without an attempt for refinement while affecting everyone around him. Including me.

And, why do I get the feeling I'm just repeating myself?

I try not to gawk, inconspicuously keeping my jaw closed with my finger — and checking for drool — while he stands deceivingly still like a Hellenistic* statue of some Greek god.

He stares at me with a solid intent, sending my blood to stain underneath the skin around my neck and ears.

Call it dumb luck, but I'm thankful my hair was in its commonly unkempt glory and covering most of my face — just in case.

Alright, calm thy tits, Ave. Who knows, maybe he's staring at something behind you... which I just realized just happens to be a wall. 

His favorite poster, perhaps?

Who was I kidding? There was nothing but a wall of bricks behind me! Unless he's into brick walls.

The air between us thins out. I crane my neck to the side, letting my hair veil my face like a heavy curtain.

Trying to find something — anything — to divert the tension in my chest, my hand grabs the drink Sly left and I drink it. 

Hmm, surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. The brown pus was, in fact, brown sugar syrup.

I casually smack my lips.

His eyes are still locked in my direction, eliciting a burning sensation in my entire body with their accusatory gleam. I couldn't help but wonder if I did something to offend him, or maybe he just has a hobby for throwing daggers at people with his eyes.

Knowing my record in socially aggravating people, it was most likely the former. If looks could kill, I would've already made a nosedive on the table.

There was something about him that grates on my nerves and leaves my body on full alert.

A small tick appears on his smooth chiseled jaw. Impatience darkens over his beautifully rugged features as I continually ignore him.

Bitch, please. Of course, somebody would naturally choose to ignore you when you glare at them. They wouldn't smile in your direction and say 'Thank you' like a fucking Miss America.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is the new way of flirting. Or, if he's just as bad as me in that area — maybe worse.

At that moment, Sly's dark head comes within my eyesight.

I signal at him, my hand surprisingly steady. I hold out the menu and motion for their signature potato-and-chorizo soup, effectively shutting Blue Steel(a.k.a. the mysterious guy) from my view. 

However, once I got that down, the thirsty side of me managed to convince myself to turn back in his direction.

He wasn't there anymore.  

(To Be Cont.)

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Oooh, where did he go now?

And, how does he even know Ave?

What reason does he have to keep staring daggers at her?

Do tell your thoughts by answering in the comments section. 

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

Blame It On The Bossa Nova —Eydie Gormé

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*[F/N]*

Lola — (Filipino term) means "grandmother".

Dried Rheum — crust in the corners of the eyes or the mouth, on the eyelids, or under the nose

Diuresis — a condition in which the kidneys filter too much bodily fluid. That increases your urine production and the frequency with which you need to use the bathroom.

Booboo — (US slang) something that is very cute and adorable.

Puppers — (plural) simply a puppy or any dog in the variety of Internet slang known as DoggoLingo.

Sis — (slang) sister. Often used as a female equivalent to "bro", with close friends rather than relatives.

Visine — a used to temporarily relieve eye redness, puffiness, itching, and watering that commonly occur with allergies.

Hunty — (slang) combination of "honey" and "c*nt." It originated in the drag world and was popularized by RuPaul's Drag Race as a term of endearment to describe your friends.

Between men with better acting — a euphemism for gay porn.

Snogging — (UK slang) means "making out".

Shagging — (UK slang) means "having sex".

Poppycock — (UK slang) means "nonsense".

VS Angel — refers to Victoria's Secret lingerie models. The name was coined in 1997 after they appeared in an ad to promote Victoria's Secret's "Angels" underwear collection.

Cow Act — (UK slang) means "bitch act".

Americans — a subtle dig on how America still has not officially adopted the metric system as the primary means of weights and measurements, unlike Europe and the rest of the world.

Vaginal Dilators — are medical devices that can be used to help reduce pain and potentially anxiety around penetration.

Hellenistic (statue) — an artistic era/style from Ancient Greece that depicts expressive movement, realistic anatomy, and ornate details in order to achieve life-like aesthetics.  

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André