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Authors: Charlotte Silver
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“in” with fashion people as a result. (This was how she had come to let drop to Cassandra once, over the phone, “The other day, Scarlett Johansson stopped by the office to see this guy Federico, he’s her personal makeup artist. And guess what? On a good day, your figure is really pretty much exactly like Scarlett Johansson’s!” “Oh my God, really?” Cassandra had squealed, not stopping to ask just whose figure Sylvie thought her’s resembled on a
bad
day.)
“Oh, that guy,” Sylvie said now. “Him. The one I met at one of those pretentious loft parties in SoHo, right. He keeps texting me and begging me to come over, but.”
“But what? Wasn’t he any good?”
“I
guess.
But wait! Didn’t I tell you? I know I told Cassandra.”
“What?” Gala pounced, praying for something dirty.
“Ugh, well, this is embarrassing, but. I drank a ton of sangria, back at the loft, back when we were dancing. That stuff was delicious! And
free.
Anyway the point is—we didn’t use protection. We ended up having sex in the backseat of a cab. The funny thing was, that was way better than the sex we had once we got back to his place. I think it was exciting just because, you know, I never take cabs since it’s not like I can afford them. So it seemed all
glamorous
at the time. But when I got to his place, to tell you the truth I just wasn’t that excited anymore. And then, the next morning, I had to hightail it to Duane Reade with a hangover and get the morning-after pill, ASAP. He paid for it, though. Thank God! Or I would have been screwed.”
“Ah! That was really thoughtful of him, Sylvie! Guys don’t always do that, you know.”
“They don’t?” asked Cassandra, thinking, as she did so, how very grateful she was to have a steady boyfriend back in Boston and to not have to have casual sex, as Sylvie and Gala evidently did. So degrading, she thought. Which, for the record, is what people who have not yet had casual sex always think until they try it out for themselves.
“So,” she heard Gala asking Sylvie now, “was he as good as Ludo was? Or can nobody else compare?”
“Ludo! That bastard. The last time I ever saw that guy, it was when I quit, remember? We were all having lunch at his studio and I had just figured out he was sleeping with that new girl I couldn’t stand, Katarina, the one who always used to wear those stupid python pants, and I decided right then and there to give my notice and throw a roast chicken in his lap!”
“Oh, that’s right, he always used to give you guys roast chicken from FreshDirect!”
“Uh-huh, that was his idea of payment. Bastard,” said Sylvie again, really stewing this time. “When you stop to think that his family owns diamond mines!”
“Wait, did you sleep with Ludo?” Cassandra said, furrowing her brow. “Because if you did, you never told me.”
“Oh, what, do I have to tell you everything?”
“Well—yes.”
“She told me!” piped up Gala, not very helpfully, Sylvie thought. Gala loved getting in the middle—of best friends or of couples: it didn’t matter which.
Sylvie sighed, annoyed with the both of them right now.
“It was just a fling, Cassandra.”
“Oh, Sylvie! Come on! It was just the best sex of your life.”
Both girls glared at her.
“What?” demanded Gala Gubelman. Selfish, she polished off the last piece of baklava. Pistachio was her favorite. “After all! Flings always are.”
—
Later on that night, while the girls were on the long train ride all the way back to Brooklyn and chattering among themselves, Lee bedded Orpheus briskly and left his apartment, not in the least in love but fully delighted with the experience nonetheless, only to stop at the taco truck for a salted tongue empanada. Such bliss, treating oneself to a greasy, solitary meal after a good bout of meaningless sex. As she bit into the empanada, savoring the little touches of the radish and lime sprinkled on top, she recalled the spectacle of
bad
day.)
“Oh, that guy,” Sylvie said now. “Him. The one I met at one of those pretentious loft parties in SoHo, right. He keeps texting me and begging me to come over, but.”
“But what? Wasn’t he any good?”
“I
guess.
But wait! Didn’t I tell you? I know I told Cassandra.”
“What?” Gala pounced, praying for something dirty.
“Ugh, well, this is embarrassing, but. I drank a ton of sangria, back at the loft, back when we were dancing. That stuff was delicious! And
free.
Anyway the point is—we didn’t use protection. We ended up having sex in the backseat of a cab. The funny thing was, that was way better than the sex we had once we got back to his place. I think it was exciting just because, you know, I never take cabs since it’s not like I can afford them. So it seemed all
glamorous
at the time. But when I got to his place, to tell you the truth I just wasn’t that excited anymore. And then, the next morning, I had to hightail it to Duane Reade with a hangover and get the morning-after pill, ASAP. He paid for it, though. Thank God! Or I would have been screwed.”
“Ah! That was really thoughtful of him, Sylvie! Guys don’t always do that, you know.”
“They don’t?” asked Cassandra, thinking, as she did so, how very grateful she was to have a steady boyfriend back in Boston and to not have to have casual sex, as Sylvie and Gala evidently did. So degrading, she thought. Which, for the record, is what people who have not yet had casual sex always think until they try it out for themselves.
“So,” she heard Gala asking Sylvie now, “was he as good as Ludo was? Or can nobody else compare?”
“Ludo! That bastard. The last time I ever saw that guy, it was when I quit, remember? We were all having lunch at his studio and I had just figured out he was sleeping with that new girl I couldn’t stand, Katarina, the one who always used to wear those stupid python pants, and I decided right then and there to give my notice and throw a roast chicken in his lap!”
“Oh, that’s right, he always used to give you guys roast chicken from FreshDirect!”
“Uh-huh, that was his idea of payment. Bastard,” said Sylvie again, really stewing this time. “When you stop to think that his family owns diamond mines!”
“Wait, did you sleep with Ludo?” Cassandra said, furrowing her brow. “Because if you did, you never told me.”
“Oh, what, do I have to tell you everything?”
“Well—yes.”
“She told me!” piped up Gala, not very helpfully, Sylvie thought. Gala loved getting in the middle—of best friends or of couples: it didn’t matter which.
Sylvie sighed, annoyed with the both of them right now.
“It was just a fling, Cassandra.”
“Oh, Sylvie! Come on! It was just the best sex of your life.”
Both girls glared at her.
“What?” demanded Gala Gubelman. Selfish, she polished off the last piece of baklava. Pistachio was her favorite. “After all! Flings always are.”
—
Later on that night, while the girls were on the long train ride all the way back to Brooklyn and chattering among themselves, Lee bedded Orpheus briskly and left his apartment, not in the least in love but fully delighted with the experience nonetheless, only to stop at the taco truck for a salted tongue empanada. Such bliss, treating oneself to a greasy, solitary meal after a good bout of meaningless sex. As she bit into the empanada, savoring the little touches of the radish and lime sprinkled on top, she recalled the spectacle of
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