I went Christmas shopping with my friend D. today, in search of stocking stuffers and an escape from the confines of our respective apartments. We found ourselves in front of the Tom Ford counter, and she gave me the eye.
“Didn’t the guy wear…?”
“Yeah. He did. But I am not thinking about him. Definitely not thinking about him.”
I say, staring at the bottle of his cologne.
“Yeah, sure. Which one was it?”
“That one, the tobacco vanilla one. It’s like fucking catnip for me. When he put it on I basically just wanted to lick him.”
“And did you?”
“Actually, no. He was a little hot-and-cold in that department.”
The saleswoman grabs the bottle, and goes to spray it on a tester, but I shake my head at her and reach out my arm, pulling back my glove to reveal my wrist.
D. says, “They have it at the commissary for like half price.”
My nose is pressed to my wrist, and I mumble at her from behind my palm,
“Yeah, mmhhmm, half price of way-too-fucking-much. But, I might need you to buy me a bottle. I don’t need the guy- I can just buy the damn perfume.”
“Or you could just keep fucking him knowing you’ll go home smelling like it.”
“Yeah, that’s super practical, completely logical. No, it’s not happening. I’m through with him.”
“Yeah, uh-huh, you seem really through with him.”
“Shut up. Ugh, I can’t escape him- he said it himself. His name showed up on the Bee yesterday. That word game I play.”
“I can set you up with my investment manager, I bet he smells nice.”
“I told you, I don’t care if the guy has money- is he a good person? Not a “nice guy”- a good person.”
“Well, he seems very laid back for having such a large trust fund.”
“I really don’t think you’re hearing me: not-interested-in-rich-dudes. Just buy me the damn perfume.”