How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel Read Free Page B

with mascara on my cheekbones and blush on my chin, I get the zipper all the way to my upper back. Phew! I rest a moment to catch my breath and look in the mirror. Thankfully my makeup isn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined, but the dress isn’t zipped all the way either.
    I reach back and realize why I gave up when I did. I can’t reach that part of my back. I get an idea.
    I sit on the edge of my bed, with my feet dangling on the floor. Then I lay on my back as I throw my legs up in the air and over my head, so that my feet are hanging over my head, over the other side of the bed, and I’m balancing on the back of my neck, leaving both of my arms free to do whatever they want behind my upper back, and they want to zip up this dress. Success!
    I roll myself back up, feet landing on the floor where they started. I let out a giant breath of relief, at which point I hear the sound of fabric cracking, and letting out the seams right over my butt, exposing my panties to the knick-knacks laying around my bedroom. Looks like I’m not going to wear this dress after all. Well, at least after tonight I’ll have someone to zip up my dresses for me.
    I rip the dress off, which proves to be much easier than getting it on—especially considering the extra space the gaping hole has just created—and look for something purple to wear. Why did I have to commit to a color? I quickly sift through my closet: purple, purple, purple. I’ve got nothing. Except… there is this one oversized man’s T-shirt? I throw it on, rip the shoulder Flashdance-style, and belt it into a mini-dress. Upon seeing my reflection all I can think is, “I know the 80s are back, but why?” Now all I need are some legwarmers and a strip club. No thank you.
    My text message dings. Shit, Lacey is waiting in a cab outside with the meter running.
    I throw off my clothes, adding them to the mess on the floor, and as quickly as possible, browse through the other previously worn and not yet washed outfits strewn across the room, in such a way that they look like the discount bin at a retail store.
    In my dirty laundry pile, I locate a fun flirty dress that I wore last week to a restaurant opening. It doesn’t have a zipper and it’s a magenta shade of pink. Close enough. I throw it on, slip into my pumps, throw some jewelry in my purse, and grab my jacket as I rush to the door.
    ~
    When I open the door, Lacey is standing there shifting her boobs around in her bra, “Are my nipples pointing straight? I can’t tell.” I can’t tell either, because I’m too busy feeling mortified that my conservative older neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Apartment Seven just walked by and heard her say that. They glare at me. They probably think I’m too old to be single and living alone. They probably think I’m alone because I can’t get a man—instead of what it really is, that I just forgot I was supposed to. They probably recognize this dress from when I wore it 3 days ago. I hate their judging eyes.
    “I thought you were waiting in the cab?” I say, wishing she had.
    “I was, but you took so long, I wanted to see what was up with you. He’s still out there.” Then, without skipping a beat she goes back to discussing her boobs, “I got this really cute new bra! Which is a miracle because even though my boobs are supposed to be Ds, they’re less firm than before, so now I can fit them into Cs, which is awesome because designers don’t care about girls with D-cups or bigger.” Despite the running meter, I take extra time to lock my front door in hopes of letting my neighbors make their exit first, so that they don’t have to endure any more of this tirade than necessary. Unfortunately, behaving like the old folks that they are, they walk especially slowly toward the security door, and hear everything, as Lacey goes on.
    “They just assume that you’re fat, and you won’t make their clothes look good anyway, so they don’t make cute designs in that size. And you can