Playbook Pages {work crush}

3 Aug

I really wasn’t sure how the night was going to go. After the exchange of a few very cheesy text messages (not my style), my hopes were not super high. But, with the craving for a margarita creeping up and the possibility of going back to sleep slipping away, I figured I had little to lose. Running my usual 15-minutes late, I walked swiftly down 2nd Ave toward the Mexican restaurant. As a I walked, I continued to talk myself out of caring about the casual meeting. Thus, when the front of the restaurant came into sight, I felt taken aback.

There he was. Leaning up against the construction outside of the restaurant in all of his WorkCrush glory. Big tan arms coming out of his t-shirt sleeves, big man-legs filling his jeans, all propped-up by navy Chucks. Cute cute cute. I instantly got a HUGE smile on my face and that fluttery feeling flooded my stomach. Whoa there. Get a hold of yourself. This is nothing, remember?

Over drinks and food we talked about work and our career paths; we talked about our families and being away from home; we talked about music and playing instruments; we covered some serious topics (he used to be 300 lbs); we laughed about stupid stuff. Overall, it was going well.

Looking at the time I reluctantly reminded him that I needed to get back into bed to sleep before my overnight shift. He offered to walk me home. On the way he pointed out the bubble trolley thing that goes over the East River to Roosevelt Island; he said it was his favorite random thing to do–I admitted I’d never been on it. With the promise of just a 30-minute detour, I agreed to ride it. The view was nice, but when we got off, I didn’t feel like getting right back on. We ventured onto a very deserted Roosevelt Island and sat by the river.

I don’t really know how it happened, but before I knew it we were making out furiously on the grass. My shoes were off, my headband thrown somewhere behind me, my dress being scandalously pushed up my legs. Then he was on top of me, my legs wrapped around his body. Then I was on top of him, both of us sitting-up, while he pulled my hips into his waist. When we finally stopped for air I noticed a few things that somehow hadn’t mattered in the moment: it was raining, I was bleeding, and it was late.

Once settled at my desk and finally feeling calm, I began to notice the toll the night had taken on my appearance: the smudges of dirt on my forearms and legs, the scrapes on the tops of my feet, the grass stains on the back of my dress.

Maybe was just the lasting effect of the tequila, but–as I sat firmly in my office chair–I still felt a little like I was floating.

 

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