Sylvia, who no doubt learned about sex and love the old-fashioned way, not by googling articles on average penis size, and who has never once doubted that her vagina is a stunning enchanted seashell destined to delight the men lucky enough to kneel before her and swear fealty to her love tulip.
Love tulip? God, Libby, what are you twelve?
“Sorry, I have to run, guys,” I squeak out back at the table, fumbling sixty dollars from my purse and placing it near my water glass, hoping that will cover my part of the check since it’s all I have in my wallet and I can’t fathom the idea of staying here a second longer. “I’ve got volunteer work early in the morning.”
“Libby volunteers at the animal shelter near the school,” Bethany informs Roger, clearly still doing her best to smooth the path for romance. “She’s always making the rest of us normal humans look lazy.”
“What do you do there?” Roger asks, his dark eyes lighting up. “I love dogs. I’ve got three, and every time I see a stray I’m tempted to bring home another.”
“I mostly socialize the cats,” I say, hooking my purse over my shoulder.
Because one day I’ll die alone and leave only my cats behind to mourn me. But it could be so much worse. At least my destiny is cuddly and furry.
Simple pleasures—tea, cats, yarn.
There is nothing wrong with simple pleasures.
But sometimes you want pleasures that aren’t simple. Sometimes you want to be kissed like you’re the only woman in the world, touched like you’re irreplaceable, and made love to with a passion that makes it clear you are the answer to every question, the balm for every wound, the dream that will still be beautiful and true when all the other dreams have gone yellow and faded with time.
“See you all on Monday.” I wave at the table at large, blow Bethany a kiss because she really is so sweet and thoughtful, even if her efforts to help me on the path to true love are coming a little too late.
If only this happy hour had happened a week ago. But it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Sooner or later I would have realized that Roger wasn’t the man for me.
As I curl up in bed, in the sheets that still smell a little like Justin, I can’t imagine loving, or making love, to anyone but him. I can’t imagine feeling beautiful and free, unashamed and sexy, powerful and perfect with another man, which means it’s time.
It’s time to stop fooling myself and do what I should have done a long time ago.
The next morning, I write my landlord a check for the pet deposit, and at the end of my volunteer shift, I come home with a fluffy orange tabby named Ivan the Terrible. Terrible is five years old, blind in one eye, and fat enough to nearly dislocate my shoulder while I’m hauling him upstairs in the carrier. He likes to lick and sniff exposed toes in an affectionate but borderline creepily way that has kept him from being adopted thus far. He’s a little weird, like me, and I’m sure we’re going to grow old together beautifully.
Or older, anyway. I know the chances that Terrible will be one of the tribe tasked with witnessing my sad and lonely end are slim. He’s no spring kitten, so odds are we’ll only have ten or twelve years together, at most.
For some reason, the thought makes me cry as I’m setting up his food and water bowl and fluffing up his new cat bed. I cry and cry, until eventually Terrible stops licking my toes through my socks and starts licking my face, purring as he does because apparently my tears are delicious.
“Sicko.” I smile as I hug him closer and pet his soft fur. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Terrible will be here when it’s all over and Justin has been set free to return to his life of dating women who are in his league and I am free to snuggle up with my new cat and be Libby with no romantic complications.
Just the way I like it.
Liar, the inner voice whispers, but it’s already quieter than it was last night.
Give me another month or two and maybe I won’t remember that I fell in love with the wrong person, or how he made me feel magical, sexy, transcendent things I never imagined I could feel. Maybe I’ll be able to forget that for a few days Justin felt like home, and that I never got the chance to tell him how much he means to me.
Though, maybe I should let someone other than my new cat help me forget…
On impulse, I pick up my phone and shoot a quick answer to the text I received this morning while I was knee-deep in semi-feral cats—Dinner sounds great. Meet you at the Fox Brass at seven.
I don’t have to be at the game, as long as I’m there to talk to Justin after. And it will be easier to talk if I don’t have to spend a few hours watching him skate. Because he is really, really sexy when he skates. Even before we were more than friends, there were times when watching him on the ice was enough to send a humming, buzzing, aware feeling dumping into my bloodstream.