Page 12 of Man Hands
10One Long WeekLater
Tom
This is getting ridiculous.Braht thinks so too. He’s frowning at me from across the breakfasttable.
It’s been a week since I had that woman under me in the boathouse and all I can think about is that woman under me in theboathouse.
No—that’s not quite true. I also think of her tits in my mouth, of my hands cupping her everywhere, of the way she kissed me like she was dying for breath and I was air. I even think of her name: Brynn. Brynn. Brynn. It’s become a little bit of a mantra in my head, and I am starting to creepmyselfout.
I’m thirty-eight years old, and I have had some sexual adventures in my life. Literally, adventures. I’ve been all over the world doingMr. Fix It Quickepisodes for H&G, with long breaks in between filming where I may have hooked up with one or two or four local women, but none of those memories has ever stuck with me like my night withBrynn.
Braht slams his hand on the table. “Stop it!” he says. “You’re all mopey, and it’s fuckingdistracting.”
We’re at Wolfgang’s Restaurant trying to have a civilized breakfast. I have ordered the Meat Lovers Scrambler and Braht has ordered dry toast and poached eggs. Times like these, I really question his manliness. I also question why he insists everyone call him Braht. I might change my last name too, if my family was as reviledashis.
Not to Braht, though. Braht is the worst name I’ve everheard.
But Idigress.
“I’m sorry,” I say half-heartedly. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I mean that was…that was…” I don’t have the words for it. The urgency. The heat. It shorted out my brain, and I don’t have a lot of extra room in my attic in the firstplace.
“It’s like you were starring in a live porno. You, playing the part of the gardener. Her, the hot, lonelypartygoer.”
“I’m not thegardener.”
“She doesn’tknowthat.”
“We think. Wethinkshe didn’t know that,”Isay.
Braht gives mealook.
I actually hope he’s right that she doesn’t know who I am. Because that would give her an excellent excuse for not calling me, or at least leaving a business card somewhereconspicuous.
“How is it that you let this perfect creature escape without giving you her last name, anyway?” my best friend asks. “You’re always so polite. You usually get the chick’s whole life story before any banginghappens.”
“Usually,” I agree. Maybe that’s why it was so spectacular this time. Raw. Authentic. Mind blowing. “Afterward, she disappeared like Cinderella at midnight.” I’d ducked into the bathroom to ditch the condom, and when I got back she was just…gone. “I don’t know how lucid I could have been in that moment. I barely finished a sentence for three days afterward.” The sex was reallythatgood.
“Damn,”Brahtsays.
“Damn,” Iagree.
“Too bad your Cinderella didn’t leave a glass slipper.” He laughs at hisownjoke.
“No shoe, nope. But I do have herpanties.”
He sits up straighter. “You have herpanties?”
“Sure do.” They’re currently in my bedside table. That sounds creepy, but if she’d thought to leave a business card I would’ve saved thatinstead.
Braht puts both hands on the table. “Well, there’s your clue! If they’re unusual, we could find herthatway.”
“What?Noway.”
“Way,” he says solemnly. “Describethem.”
“They’re peony pink with an espresso-colored elastic,” I say, realizing too late that the precision of this description will makehimhowl.
Anditdoes.
