Somehow it’s always been more convenient for me to go to Ted’s. There’s a timing thing and a commute thing. If we lived anywhere else the one hour and ten minutes it takes me to get from my place to his would qualify us for long-distance status.
But now he says he’s coming over. He says he wants to make sure I actually have an apartment. I think that part’s a joke.
I do have an apartment, but it has a sort of Holly Golightly thing going on. You know, no furniture, mounds of clothes and shoes. . . . Except I don’t always emerge from it looking perfect in Givenchy, and I don’t have that awesome bathtub couch from the movie, and I can never get my hair to be tall like that, and, you know, I’m not a whore.
So here’s the plan:
Step 1- Clean up.
Step 2- Act embarrassed that my apartment is such a mess today.
Step 3- Take off my clothes and distract him from everything else in my apartment.