Kalinda Gregory had an hour before her boyfriend’s flight touched down in Memphis. One hour before she could hold the love of her life in her hands. Sixty minutes until he delivered her birthday present.
Until his arrival, she was going to drink.
T-minus one hour.
She swiveled her head and took in the space. It was a swanky hotel—as swanky as a hotel in Memphis could get. And the bar was decent, she thought as she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror behind the bar. Here I am in a too-tight dress and begging to be taken advantage of. All of this was for him, her boyfriend of three years.
In her mind, she had each step planned out: Have the car meet him at the baggage claim, kiss him, touch him to make sure he was real and that this dream was happening.
But she had to wait.
Kalinda spent most of her life waiting.
Waiting to get accepted into graduate school. Waiting for a job. Waiting for her advisor to finish reading her dissertation. Waiting to get her life together. Waiting for the right guy to choose her. Waiting for the right time to do anything and everything she always wished and desired.
Now, as she settled in at the hotel bar, she was waiting again.
“A drink, ma’am?” The bartender cut into her thoughts.
“Water, please.” He asked if she wanted a stronger drinker, and she declined. From the looks of the crowds at the bar, it was one of those nights where hard drinks were needed to combat the delays that accompanied coming home or waiting another night to get home. Kalinda shook her head and watched the scrolling weather images on the monitors above the bar. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she checked the delicate gold timepiece clasped to her wrist—a birthday gift from him last year. He should be here soon.
Six months ago, she moved from D.C. to a place most unlike the nation’s capital. Her boyfriend stayed at his World Bank gig and lived it up with the pictures on Facebook as proof while she lived in a place where she couldn’t find pantyhose or makeup to match her skin, a location that forced her to drive 55.6 miles to get her hair done, and in a town where men of all sorts, sizes, and colors considered her invisible. But she had a tenure-track job, a steady paycheck, and health insurance. And as an American studies Ph.D. with a less than desirable publishing record, she had to take what she could get. So she was stuck in a blue college town in a red state smack in the middle of the country.
She was seeking solace from a man who was slipping further away from her, both in literal miles and in emotional connection.
Getting laid was the most important part of this weekend, her crossing over into the thirties. She had been thinking about sex since she moved, sex with him, sex with the men cavorting across the dollar movie theater scenes, sex with the buff-bodied and dim-witted football players in her classes. But she was faithful and waiting for him, the man she knew was the one.
Maybe he wasn’t The One, the person who made everything in your life sparkle. But he was the one man she was intimate with, the one man who was perfect on paper for her.
Perfection on paper doesn’t mean squat, Kalinda’s adviser’s voice popped into her head. You can’t make babies or a home with a paper man.
Her phone buzzed, and she smiled at the name that flashed on her screen. His call came sooner than she expected, and she answered on the third ring. “Baby, you should still be in the air.”
“Kalinda,” the boyfriend sighed. “I’m not coming. I’m putting out fires. You know this issue with the Eurozone, the Greek economy, and...”
She ended the call before he could continue his self-absorbed talk about failed nation states and crumbling economic policies. It was always the same excuse. Work over fun. His life and priorities over her interests and concerns. Him over her.
A bubble of disappointment filled her chest, making breathing hard and thinking hard. He did this
Until his arrival, she was going to drink.
T-minus one hour.
She swiveled her head and took in the space. It was a swanky hotel—as swanky as a hotel in Memphis could get. And the bar was decent, she thought as she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror behind the bar. Here I am in a too-tight dress and begging to be taken advantage of. All of this was for him, her boyfriend of three years.
In her mind, she had each step planned out: Have the car meet him at the baggage claim, kiss him, touch him to make sure he was real and that this dream was happening.
But she had to wait.
Kalinda spent most of her life waiting.
Waiting to get accepted into graduate school. Waiting for a job. Waiting for her advisor to finish reading her dissertation. Waiting to get her life together. Waiting for the right guy to choose her. Waiting for the right time to do anything and everything she always wished and desired.
Now, as she settled in at the hotel bar, she was waiting again.
“A drink, ma’am?” The bartender cut into her thoughts.
“Water, please.” He asked if she wanted a stronger drinker, and she declined. From the looks of the crowds at the bar, it was one of those nights where hard drinks were needed to combat the delays that accompanied coming home or waiting another night to get home. Kalinda shook her head and watched the scrolling weather images on the monitors above the bar. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she checked the delicate gold timepiece clasped to her wrist—a birthday gift from him last year. He should be here soon.
Six months ago, she moved from D.C. to a place most unlike the nation’s capital. Her boyfriend stayed at his World Bank gig and lived it up with the pictures on Facebook as proof while she lived in a place where she couldn’t find pantyhose or makeup to match her skin, a location that forced her to drive 55.6 miles to get her hair done, and in a town where men of all sorts, sizes, and colors considered her invisible. But she had a tenure-track job, a steady paycheck, and health insurance. And as an American studies Ph.D. with a less than desirable publishing record, she had to take what she could get. So she was stuck in a blue college town in a red state smack in the middle of the country.
She was seeking solace from a man who was slipping further away from her, both in literal miles and in emotional connection.
Getting laid was the most important part of this weekend, her crossing over into the thirties. She had been thinking about sex since she moved, sex with him, sex with the men cavorting across the dollar movie theater scenes, sex with the buff-bodied and dim-witted football players in her classes. But she was faithful and waiting for him, the man she knew was the one.
Maybe he wasn’t The One, the person who made everything in your life sparkle. But he was the one man she was intimate with, the one man who was perfect on paper for her.
Perfection on paper doesn’t mean squat, Kalinda’s adviser’s voice popped into her head. You can’t make babies or a home with a paper man.
Her phone buzzed, and she smiled at the name that flashed on her screen. His call came sooner than she expected, and she answered on the third ring. “Baby, you should still be in the air.”
“Kalinda,” the boyfriend sighed. “I’m not coming. I’m putting out fires. You know this issue with the Eurozone, the Greek economy, and...”
She ended the call before he could continue his self-absorbed talk about failed nation states and crumbling economic policies. It was always the same excuse. Work over fun. His life and priorities over her interests and concerns. Him over her.
A bubble of disappointment filled her chest, making breathing hard and thinking hard. He did this
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