Erica Katchen 

I don’t remember being on the tube

(London 2019)

Just that I drank four pints of Guinness on my date with the Irish boy I met on that useless celebrity dating app. His name was Eoin. I had to ask Google how to pronounce it. I don’t know why his parents had to be complicated in spelling Owen. He was a soccer player turned boring analyst for some company I had no interest in. Something in fintech? I asked him if that had something to do with Finland. Which I would argue, is a happy country I would be glad to work for. He laughed at me like I was some endearing idiot. His eyes glanced down from my face to my lips to the v-cut of my blouse. It was never my intention to come off as a bimbo. Personally, I praise Meghan Markle for ever dating in this country in the first place. If people looked past my valley girl accent, they’d see I was just as cynical as the rest of them.

In addition to him knowing Gaelic, Eoin and I spoke practically different languages. He didn’t find it funny when I told him the only thing I knew in Irish was ‘top of the mornin’ to ya.’ After Guinness number three, or ‘tree’ as he said, I asked if he could do a jig. He replied, “do I look like I jig?”

I doubted my commentary about leprechauns and potato chips counted as racism. As a Jew, I figured I had clout to joke about persecuted peoples. It wasn’t like I was talking genocide or famine. Meat and fucking potatoes. Maybe he should’ve asked me more questions, I’d gladly talk about the star-spangled banner and America’s lack of universal healthcare. No, he kept just switching the topic to Chelsea FC. Apparently, he was supposed to play for them until a career-ending injury. I asked him what the injury was, and he said he broke his wrist. Call me sports illiterate, but I didn’t think you needed your hands to play soccer.

When Eoin excused himself to the bathroom, I saw a text from Calum.

Want to come over?

It took everything in me to not go home with Calum after Kate’s Halloween party. We still hadn’t been on a date, but he was texting more. Every day to be precise. Ignoring him at Kate’s party clearly worked for him. I must admit I also looked fantastic in the Baby Spice costume I’d put together. I loved playing hard to get. My fingers slid up the chat to look at the shirtless picture he sent yesterday. Any skinny boy can have abs if they flex hard enough. The phone covered his face which probably displayed a constipated exertion. I still smiled at the fact he sent me this directly, I didn’t need him to be ripped. His accent, that face, the gorgeous blonde hair. Anything he did sent me off the deep end. It was inexplicable. But because of that, it was vital that I date other people. I couldn’t get fully caught up with him until he was ready to actually commit. After Gabriel I knew what I deserved, although he still hadn’t replied to the desperate message I sent him a few weeks ago.

Eoin returned to the table and guzzled the remainder of his beer. I’m confused how I ever found his pictures attractive. “Should we head then?” he said, wiping the foam from his upper lip.

What the hell, be there in 30.

We exited the bar and Eoin moved his fingers down to interlace with mine. The entire date there was no inclination he liked me. Curse my boobs, they’d probably trapped his male gaze. I walked towards the station, and he yanked me back towards him. His eyes stared into mine, pools of boozy lust. His hand caught my cheek and pulled my mouth towards him. Meaty lips smushed mine, he sucked and pulled and broke his tongue through my teeth barrier. Drilling it down my throat, possessing my mouth. Every crevice of it, wet with his saliva. I tried to understand what he was up to with that tongue. Would he ever pull it back? Finally he did, still holding the back of my neck.

“So we going back to yours?”

There were several reasons why I did not want burly Eoin to come back to mine. The obvious — I wasn’t headed home. The intricate — the chest hairs poking out of his button-down. I fantasized about a night where I didn’t have plans with Calum and those squiggles of hair ended up in my bed instead. Let’s say Eoin came back to mine, sweaty tongue in tow. We would roll around in my sheets, his large linebacker body gaining heat, sweat oozing from his pores. He’d continue to possess my mouth with his taste of tobacco and Camden Hells. He’d be aggressive like many of the others, show me tricks he thought I didn’t already know. It’d be fine, sure…until the next morning. I’d wake up to find torso decay molted all over me. His chest hair on my boobs, my stomach, in my mouth, in places I couldn’t reach. Immediately after he’d make up an excuse to leave, I’d have to clean my recently washed sheets. In L.A., sure, what’s some laundry for a lay? NO. In this country, dryers were few and far between. It would take several days for them to recover on the clothing rack. I’d be sleeping on caseless pillows. Not to mention I’d also have to re-wash my hair to shake out all of his putrid matter. My hair schedule called for washes on only Mondays and Thursdays. It was a Friday, so my regime would be completely out of whack. Some men are worth the hassle, the maintenance, the planning. Eoin, however, had lackluster hygienic rituals that would set me back days. This rationality, I believed, was an extreme sign of my adulthood.

“I’m actually a bit tired, maybe next time.”

“Yep, grand.”

He sighed. It was as if I’d cut him. Me, his American dream girl. Taylor freaking Swift.

Eoin stubbornly walked me to Tottenham Court Road even though I really needed the Victoria line to get to Calum’s. Luckily, he was taking the line east towards bum fuck Bethnal Green. We rode the escalator down together and I stared at every crevice in his face as we landed under the unforgiving tube lighting. I couldn’t tell in the pub, but here he was a crater face. This had to be the worst ending to a date. Seeing someone under fluorescents is enough to give you the ick. He probably was staring at my forehead creases, the bags under my eyelids. Thrilled that I made the decision to not sleep with him. It was surprising when he kissed me again as we parted ways.

I jumped on the Northern Line towards Morden and my adrenaline switched on. Eoin who? I was all about Calum. My heart pounded as I strategized how to get to Vauxhall. My eyes trailed the tube map above me, I would take the Northern line to Stockwell and double back towards Central London on the Victoria line. Damnit, I was a drunk genius.

“I’m here, all your dreams can come true now,” I laughed on the phone, outside Calum’s building.

“A bit drunk are we? I’ll buzz you up.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just becoming British.”

“So just a twat then.” He laughed. The door buzzed and I hung up the phone. I hopped in the elevator up to Calum’s flat. Someone once told me that they installed mirrors in lifts so that people wouldn’t pay attention to how long the elevator ride would take. Clever engineers playing on human vanity. I analyzed my reflection between the carpeted walls of the old elevator. The brush of my gloss glided over my lips, covering any hint of Eoin’s mouth on mine.

The elevator doors opened and Calum was outside them, leaning against a radiator. He was in the same black joggers from the picture he sent me. This time, covered by a baggy white t-shirt. He had glasses on. Men in loungewear were kryptonite. I bit my lip and felt fluttering in my stomach. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and kiss him. But I knew I was drunk and had to work extra hard to channel my cool girl persona. He smirked and without saying a word walked down the hall towards his flat. I followed behind like a drunk little lieutenant.

His roommates were out, he said, the whole place was ours. Still, he immediately ducked into his bedroom. He had a king-sized bed, the sign of a posh boy. The rest of us peasants were stuck with double beds so small my feet hung off the end. I laid down on his bed and rolled around like I was on the wide green field in The Sound of Music. The hills are aliveeeee with the sound of Calum’s dick pounding into me. Oof, that was a little vulgar, even for my taste. His ridiculously sized flat screen against the wall was playing indie music. Candles were lit around us, it almost felt romantic.

 “I love your bed, it's humongous!”

“You’re so weird.”

I stopped rolling around like a child and reached for his hands.

“I like your rings.”

“You’re definitely pissed.”

He pinched my cheeks like I was a child. I tried my hardest to not appear as tipsy as I actually was.

“No, I’m just nervous, leave me alone.”

“Please, you don’t get nervous.” 

“I’m shy, I swear!”

I grabbed the pillow propped up on his bed and hid behind it. He pulled it from my face and threw it. He kissed me and I thought I would explode. Infatuation didn’t even cover it.

He pulled back: “better?”

Sex with him was intimate. His blue eyes locked mine and we both smiled. The eye lock is my favorite part of sleeping with someone you have a crush on. He could’ve been railing me from behind just a moment ago but when you acknowledge each other and laugh at the activity of sex, it all feels normal. Connected in the weird animalistic desire that is intercourse.

We were vibrant and then he ejaculated. The age-old trope of cumming clarity. Personally, I didn’t understand it, but I always knew when it happened. An altered sense of perception had just hit Calum and I was unable to stop it. Women get attached with sex, while insecure men get scared. I was cuddled up next to him, tracing invisible lines on his chest. His face was turned away, deep in thought.

“Whatcha thinking about?” I was sing songy. Dewy, glowy eyed, content.

“Nothing.”

“You know you can tell me. I mean we’re friends are we not?”

“We’re hardly friends, Joey.”

“Oh?”

“No, not like that. I don’t sleep with my friends, do you know what I mean?”

“Well, not to be weird, but I do like you.”

“Mm like is a strong word.”

He laughed.

I pulled away from his chest and moved to the edge of the bed.

“Ugh what now. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re so American.”

“What does that even mean?” I grimaced.

“Just overly emotional. It’s not that deep.”

It stung. My head flurried with everything wrong with me. Why did I say I liked him? Why. Any power I had was gone.

“I just meant if you died, I would care about it. That’s all.”

“You sure about that?”

I mimicked his posh accent, “It’s not that deep.” That was awkward. Stupid, idiot, Joey. Why do you fuck everything up?

“Alright.”

He pulled away from me.

I moved closer to him. My fingers tickled his back. I wanted him to look at me.

“I think you should leave,” he said.

“Calum, it’s 2am.”

“I’ll call you an Uber.”

“That’s so rude. I’m not leaving. I’ll just go stay on your couch.”

“You can stay, I just think you should move on from me. I don’t think this is healthy.”

My head raced. Did I miss something? Whatever I said I didn’t think it was that bad. I needed to fix this. How could he change his mind so suddenly? Maybe I was too buzzed from the Guinness to see my mistake.

“Calum, can you look at me?” His eyes locked with mine as before. I kissed him. Traced my hand down to his dick. It was hard, and I knew I could win him back over to my side. With a little effort I could get him to want me again.

He finally gave into me, “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t care.”

 There is nothing like being in somebody’s bed who doesn’t want you there. My chest wanted to crawl out from my skin. Free myself from the hollowness of what I just consented to. But once he came again, I just laid there and pretended to sleep.

It could be the plot of a bad porno.

(Los Angeles 2018)

Falling in love with your forty-year-old boss at twenty-five. The reality of looking at his phone while he showered in the hotel bathroom was worse. Recent pictures of Lauren and the baby, cuddled up on his couch. Texts from Lauren about being home late. Her reply, no worries love you. Love you, something he had said to me only minutes ago. Kissing my collarbone while his dick remained flaccid inside of me. Wasn’t that love? Maybe I knew it all along. He would never leave her for me, the pinnacle of womanhood. Tall and beautiful Lauren. A Swedish-American princess. With their perfect blue-eyed baby, Atticus. Poor Atticus, he didn’t ask to be named after a book character his father probably hadn’t read.

Brent walked out of the shower with the towel tied around his waist. He was so cool, sweeping his hand through his wet locks. Normally I’d laugh and whisk him away for more cuddles in bed, but I lost control. As if showing the unlocked phone to him with Lauren’s text thread was guided by my ancestors before me. Ones who had been screwed over as much as I had. Great-Grandma Rosie whose husband left her for some woman he met in Korea, and Grandma Sylvie whose husband left her for her best-friend's husband. It had to be genetic, the Kolman’s epically-failed relationships. The only reason Dad was with Mom was because he was too much of a coward to cheat on his bread basket.

“Do you want to explain this?” Lauren’s words glared at him.

“You went through my phone?”

I ignored him, “You’ve been cheating on Lauren this whole time.”

He rolled his eyes and without denying it: “Oh Josephine don’t act so naive.”

“What am I even in your phone then, some fake guy's name?”

I scrambled on the phone and sorted through his messages. There our chat was, with my name labelled, assistant. No lesser word. Even my email, parkerasst@wta.com., I was nobody. I’d rather at least be marked as a Chad or a Doctor Luis, anything than what I was to him.

The nausea crept in, “Is this all I am to you?” My voice cracked. We’d only been together three months but silly me for assuming separated meant apart. Our stays in hotels were just because Lauren still lived with him, but I thought a mansion in the Palisades would give them enough distance.

He soon realized being aggressive wasn’t working.

“Baby come on. Come here, let’s talk this out. It’s really not what it looks like.”

He crawled over to the bed and cradled me into his arms. My face turned around and I sobbed onto his bare chest. I was quiet and stayed there for a while. Taking him in, wondering if this would be the last time I would be with him.

“When I told you Lauren and I were separating, we were.”

He stroked my hair, but I wriggled out from under him. Curling up into the sheets at the corner of the bed.

“What happened then?”

“She wanted to work on it for Atticus, so we’ve been going to counselling.”

“How long have you been back with her?” I wiped my remaining tears and sat up straight.

He hesitated, “Over a month… but I still want to see you. Okay, this is just a bad situation but what was I going to do, say no to her? She would just use you as ammunition to get me fired. She’s vindictive like that.”

My head boiled but mostly it was sad. I wanted to scream at him, but I also wanted to bury my head in the fluffy hotel pillow and never come out. I pictured him having sex with me and then going home to her. Showering off any residue before heading to bed. No traces. Then I thought of Atticus, with a psycho mom and a cheating Dad.

“Okay, thank you that’s all I needed to know.”

I spun off the bed and gathered my clothes on the floor, racing to put on my thong and bra.

“Josephine, stop. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, you’re still with her!”

“This doesn’t have to end – we can sort this out, okay.”

I wanted to fight, to throw things at him. To whine and cry and have sex with him until I fucked all of the nonsense away. Everything in me wanted to stay, but my head was clouded. For a month I’d been getting Lauren’s seconds. I needed to throw up. To gain control. He couldn’t watch me as I spiralled like a pathetic fool.

I looked at him but said nothing. Grabbed my purse off the dresser and started to hike my jeans up.

“Please stay, Josephine. I’ll leave her, you just need to give me some time, okay.”

I opened the door and turned around for one last look. I shook my head in disbelief and slammed it behind me. I was in the Sofitel Beverly Hills hallway half-naked, running to the elevator so I wouldn’t have to deal with him. Not that he’d be the type to run after me. He was too dignified in that way.

At the valet station, I waited an annoyingly long time for my car before handing over twenty dollars. The clunky look of an old Nissan against the beauty of the hotel. I drove home. Not to my apartment, to my mother’s house. Because she was the only person in the world I wanted a hug from.

“Mom?” I yelled through the open house. The lights were off, but I knew she’d be up watching the news.

“Joey?” Her voice quivered with concern. I listened as she ran down the stairs to the kitchen. She slammed the light on. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

I ran straight for her arms and she held me and rubbed my back.

“Honey what happened?”

I didn’t want to say the words because I knew once I did everything with Brent would be over. My mother would never understand. She proceeded to make two cups of mint tea and sat on the couch with me. She stroked my hair and put on Notting Hill, my favorite.  When my tea was finished, I returned to the kitchen for another. I could see my mom smiling at the T.V. and thought about how much I loved her. Maybe I could trust her about Brent, and she’d help me decide what to do. My phone pinged with a text from Brent, I walked back to the couch as I viewed it.

Don’t give up on us baby, I love you.    

“Why do you always need to be on your phone?” My mom’s tone pierced my ears.

“Says the woman who can’t even have lunch with me without taking a work call.”

And then, like all other times I was with my mother for more than an hour, we got into it. All the screams I hadn’t released on Brent were directed at her. Because if anything was clear to me that night, my mother would never understand me, and Brent still loved me. And if I learned anything from my bad taste in movies, love conquers all.