Page 1 of Body Checking
THE CHATTER around me grows louder as I sit alone, staring at my now empty glass of wine. It was full thirty minutes ago, but after eating all the bread that was brought to the table I figured I’d just top off the evening by throwing back the entire glass.
I catch the eyes of my server and raise my hand. She weaves her way through the tables and approaches me, pity in her eyes.
“Can I go ahead and get the check for the glass of wine?” I ask her.
She gives me thatoh you poor thingsmile and says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”
The smile I give her is small as she walks away. I pull out my wallet and fish out a twenty, leaving it on the table because I know she’ll have to pay for that glass out of her earnings and I just don’t feel right letting her pay out of pocket for something she didn’t drink or eat. It goesagainst every nice bone in my body. If I walked out of this restaurant knowing I drank a glass of wine I didn’t pay for, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight with the weight of the guilt that would rest on me.
My best friend Sasha has nicknamed me Swiss Miss Maren because I want everyone to be happy and never confront anyone who has wronged me. I mean, she’s not wrong. I’ve never been confrontational. I guess that’s why people walk all over me like a cheap rug, tossing me aside when I’m tattered and no longer useful to them. Which is what I’m assuming Walker has done since he didn’t show up tonight and won’t answer my calls or texts.
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and slip my arms in. I reach the door and the host rushes to open it for me.
“Have a nice night, miss,” he says with a smile.
“Thanks.” I’m appreciative of his acknowledgment of me, but it’s probably only because it’s his job.
I pull out my phone and order an Uber and wait by the curb for it to come. Once I’m in and on my way home, I decide to send Sasha a text.
Me:Hey Sash. Headed home. Walker never showed up.
Her response is almost immediate and exactly what I would expect.
Sash:That motherfucking ball sucker. I’ll meet you at your place.
Me:No babes. Don’t worry about it. I just want to get into my cozy sweats and re-watch all of the Sanditon episodes.
Sash:Will you quit watching that shit? It gives women unrealistic ideas of what a man should be. You wanna know what real men are like, watch crime documentaries. That’s what most men are like.
Me:Serial killers?
Sash:No, assholes. It’s why those women end up snapping on them and burying their ass in the backyard. See you in fifteen.
I contemplate arguing with her for just a moment, but I already know I’ll just be spinning my tires. Sasha is going to be sitting on my couch by the time I get home no matter what I say.
Me:Okay. See you soon.
And just like I predicted, Sasha is on my comfy couch with a bowl of peanut butter M&M’s and popcorn ready to go.
“What’s that?” I ask her, spotting a large canvas tote on the floor.
“You’ll see. Just go change.” I give her a skeptical look and trudge to my room in my small condo.
I hang up my leather jacket in my closet and practically rip the black silky dress off. The dress I bought specifically for dinner tonight. I kick off my booties and slip on my baby blue sweats and matching fuzzy sweater. My hair that was smoothed into shiny waves is pulled up into a messy bun, and the bright red lipstick is wiped away.
Once my makeup is off and my body is thanking me for rolling out of those spanx, I join Sasha on the couch and flop down with a sigh.
“So the douche canoe hasn’t responded?”
“Nope. All my texts show delivered and read, but no response.” I reach into the bowl and grab a handful of the M&M and popcorn mixture.
“That little prick. I wish to God you’d let me slash his tires or make a report that he touched a girl inappropriately.” Sasha pops a handful of popcorn into her mouth and I choke.
“Good Lord, Sash. That’s where you go? Slash tires or molestation charges. What happened to just calling him a mean name and moving on?”
Sasha pulls her golden hair into a top knot and wraps the scrunchie on her wrist around it. “We’re not twelve anymore, Maren. We’re beyond name calling. Now that we’re adults, our revenge has matured to vandalism and legally punishable offenses.”
If this girl wasn’t my best friend, I would think she’s psychotic. But since she is my best friend, Iknowshe’s psychotic.
