The Mr. T. Chronicles, Chapter 3: Halfway to The End

And so, my dignity firmly over the (apparently nearby) horizon, I caved like a badly-made soufflé midweek and used my phone for what it was meant to be used for.

The following events take place between Saturday, 9am and Sunday, 3am.

tSN: Hi.:) (first sign of incredible weakness – a SMILEY)

MrT: Hey how are you? Why so quiet? (PUNKASS!!)

tSN: Busy busy busy…you know me. (enter aggravation at having texted in the first place. Damn my weak/non-existent will!!)

MrT: I’ve missed you. (Cue giggles, and a stampede away from logic. Goodbye aggravation, hello my inner High School Girl.) (NOTE. Instead of, PUNKASS!! Then why haven’t you texted? It’s OVER! et al, et al)

tSN: :)

MrT: Can I see you tonight?

tSN: (making ZERO effort to be busy, and giving NO thought to saying – what’s that word? – no) What’re you doing tonight?

MrT: We’re doing Flamingo. (hip yet chilled joint for up-and-coming yuppies with an intense desire to prove how urban and successful they are. But good cocktails. Which is a great exchange for my shame.)

tSN: I’ll let you know then. (trying to save a dismally hopeless…whatever)

MrT: Pick you up at 9?

tSN: Determined, aren’t we… (Arrogant, sexy jerk! I won’t give in! I won’t! Ok, we can be resolute tomorrow. What to wear?...)

MrT: Decisive would be the word.

tSN: Ok then. See you at 9.:) (RAWWRRR!!! ALL SYSTEMS GO!)

Flamingo. 2:45 a.m. Great music. Great non-boyfriend talking to other guys and gals (what if he’s bi??!) exhibiting classic Mr. T. symptoms.

tSN: He’s a burr drunk. I don’t think he can drive, babe.

MM: So how’re you going to get home?

tSN: I’ll call a cab. But can’t exactly leave him here, can I. Oh gosh as he trips on a bar stool. I’m terrible at babysitting.

MM: Really? Lol. A man after my own heart. Y’all clearly need to call it a night, though.

tSN: Yeah…think I’ll take him home.

MM: In his car?

tSN: Yeah, then take a cab. Why is he drunk? Aren’t I supposed to be the one drowning my sorrows? Ok here he comes I’ll text you lat

And that is how I found myself at Mr. T.’s house at 3:15 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning.

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