Muddled Love

Why I'm Single

After I take a quick shower to get all of Lucien's saliva out of my face and hair and finish drying my hair, I find Lucien sitting quietly on my sofa, staring off into nowhere. The TV isn't even on, and there certainly isn't some action going on across my apartment from my windows. He isn't even on the phone calling someone or messaging some chick. He is just there like a bronze statue at a park.

"Are you okay?" I confirm as I approach him. "Do you need a beer or something? Or maybe a cookie?" Usually before I can offer him a drink, he already takes the initiative to grab something from my fridge. Luckily, my cooking skills aren't as good as his, so he doesn't really like eating my food. He does enjoy my baking, so my cookies, muffins, or cakes always get devoured by his big fat mouth.

"No. I don't feel like eating." he mutters under his breath without even looking at me.

No to cookies? Knowing that this is severe, I ask him, "Are you . . . that annoyed about me not telling you about my childhood friend?"

Finally, Lucien makes eye contact with me, yet I feel like I am getting stared down by an Italian gangster. Then, he opens his mouth just to say, "I thought we were closer than that."

"Okay. I can explain. It's just that I thought Bennett would never come back to the States. I thought he'd just stay in the UK and I never expected him to be engaged to . . . my sister," I tell him. "I'm sure you have some secrets that you'd never share with me."

"That's not true," he refutes. "I'm open to share anything if you just ask."

Feeling rather skeptical, I shoot him quite a personal question: "Tell me your first sexual experience then."

Without even blushing, Lucien answers, "I was fourteen and this girl in her senior year said she could make me feel good at her house party. She was a hot cheerleader and was mad at her boyfriend for flirting with this other girl. Then, she took me to her room and—"

"Stop," I interrupt. "That's enough. I don't need to hear more. I get the idea."

Leaning backwards on the sofa, he grumbles, "You're the one that asked first."

"Fine. You're right, but I didn't expect you to actually spill the beans."

He lifts his shoulders and points out, "See? I told you that I'd share anything with you if you'd just ask."

There is one question that has always bugged me, and I always thought it would be awfully rude to ask him about it. However, since he offered for me to poke at him all I want about his secrets, I muster the courage to enquire, "Then why are you such a player?"

Wagging a finger in front of my nose, he revises my statement: "I'm not a player, Gem. Very disappointed that you'd even believe that."

I roll my eyes at this delusional man who has slept with so many women that I'm getting to know all the possible female names out there. The most unique name I've heard so far has been Okyrhoe, a Greek name meaning fast flowing. Of course, there have been a lot of Jessicas, Ashleys, Katies or some form of that, Alexandras, Victorias, Natalies, and Brittanys. Just by the sheer number of names I can list, I'm still surprised that he hasn't contracted herpes. Perhaps Darwin really wanted Lucien to spread his genes to make the best kid out there, but if that were the case, Lucien would have had some child already. If he did, I can't even imagine how that kid would turn out. A second Lucien? Out to infect more women? No and ew.

"You're making that face again," Lucien all of a sudden indicates.

"What face?"

"Where you look like you've been constipated for a week and so you're trying to squeeze just one bit of feces out of you," he informs me.