The Musings of Kit

And more importantly, where the fuck were your clothes?

Your naked body was tangled in a soft sheet. You were far from picky about the sheets you purchased, you couldn’t afford to be picky, so even without opening your eyes you knew two things were true: this was not your bed and the sheet had a higher thread count than you could ever afford.

“Fuck,” you groaned as you forced open your eyes. There wasn’t enough moisture in your throat to allow the word to come out in much more than a croak.

The room you found with your dry, exhausted eyes was too bright, too clean. It was modern to the point of excess. There was a flat screen TV across from the bed designed and styled to look as a painting when not in use.

Those fuckers were far from cheep.

There was no one else in the bed with you, though the clock showed that it wasn’t yet seven. Warmth didn’t even linger from the ghost of a body you had in theory shared the bed with.

“Fuck,” you groaned, rolling over in the too comfortable bed before you forced yourself up on your hands and knees.

It took a few blinks to properly focus your eyes. As soon as the clean lines and modern touches of the room properly came into focus, you did what you always did when you’d wake up in some strange room. You looked around to see who’s it was.

The man however was nowhere to be found, at least not in the large bedroom. There wasn’t a note on either of the perfectly clean end tables like you expected. Usually, after a drunk hook up if the host of the night woke before you, they’d leave you a note.

Sometimes it’d have their numbers. More often than not, it was a polite ‘thanks for the fuck’ while really asking for you to be gone before they got back to their place so they didn’t have to face the awkward ‘what did this mean’ conversation that never really had to happen.

No note meant he was probably still somewhere in the condo, except it was silent. You could hear the traffic on the street below but only just so. The bed didn’t offer so much as a creak as you slipped your feet onto the ground.

Your clothes sat, neatly folded and washed on the top of a black dresser topped with clear glass. There wasn’t a note waiting for you on them either.

It didn’t take you long at all to slip into yesterday’s clothes.

Would it still count as a walk of shame if yesterday’s clothes were clean but you were still wearing yesterday’s makeup?

Probably.

You didn’t want to believe you were so stupid as to not just get drunk with Vox but to go so far as go back to his place. It was worse though. The pleasant ache between your legs told you that you had sex.

At first you didn’t remember it. You wanted to not remember it but as you stepped out of the bedroom, the memories returned to you.

Everything you wanted to say was true, wasn’t. You couldn’t run out of the condo and spread rumors of how poor of a lover Vox was. It simply wasn’t true.

Last night was quite possibly the best drunk fuck you’d ever had, and that pissed you off even more.

“I hate him,” you grumbled, grabbing your discarded smart low heel from by the kitchen.

“That’s not what it seemed like last night,” Vox’s smooth voice carried easily, startling you.

“I thought you left.” The words sounded more like an accusation than you wanted.

“Been up for hours,” he shrugged, “but I’m not needed in the office for a few hours yet.”

“Then why are you up?” You resisted to ask him how after drinking so much the night before he could be up so early.

“I didn’t get where I am by resting on my laurels,” Vox said, taking a drink of a steaming mug of black coffee.

“I should go,” you mumbled, feeling awkward with his disregard. How could he be sitting, drinking coffee in the morning silence?

“Yes,” Vox said, looking at whatever report he was reading on his laptop, “you should.”

You’d expected him to call for a car for you but no offer was made. Maybe he would extend the offer at the last second.

He didn’t. He didn’t say another word to you while you walked ut of his door. He didn’t even get up from his damn seat.

“Get over yourself.” You wanted to kick yourself for giving a shit.

What happened didn’t mean a goddamn thing. You were used for sex and that was fine. You were using him for sex too. It wasn’t a smart choice but it was as much yours as it was his.

“It didn’t mean anything. It was just fucking.”

“Fuck,” You mumbled, yanking the tag off the shirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You’d stopped and spent money you didn’t have on a new outfit on your way to the office. The last thing you were going to do was show up to work late, in yesterday’s makeup and wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Everyone would know you didn’t make it home the night before if you did.

You drop your purse on your desk, wake your computer and make haste to the bathroom, doing your best not to be seen by anyone.

“Shit!” The word comes out in a hiss as you’re faced with the extent of your face. In hindsight, you should have taken the time to look at your face when you changed at the department store.

But you didn’t, too focused on getting to the office.

“Hot date last night?” Cherri said, though the words came out twisted by her accent. They where harsh and grating and yet you loved hearing her talk.

“No.” The denial came out too quick to be honest.

“Bullshit.” Cherri laughed, stepping up to you. “I know what slept in make up looks like.”

“I just overslept.”

“Uh-huh.” Cherri pulled at the hem of your shirt, sticking her pinky in a small rip. “And couldn’t wear your own clothes because of it.”

I’ve had this.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” She slipped her finger out of the hole created by your careless rip of the tags and grabbed a paper towel and wet it down.

Any attempts to defend yourself just made you look more guilty and really, if anyone knew what post one night stand makeup looked like, it would be Cherri. Instead, you let her scrub at your face, pulling your chin this way and that while cleaning up the smudges.

“So, who was the lucky one?” Cherri asked as she worked.

“What?”

“Who fucked you good? And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t good, you’re walking like a newborn fawn.”

“I am not!” You smacked her arm as she stepped away. “Just some guy I met in the press pool.”

“Friend or enemy?” Cherri asked and you cringed instead of answering.

Vox was the enemy. Hell, he was the king of enemies. Head of the enemy army.

But it was hard to forget the moments where he almost seemed normal. The times where he made sense or agreed with you. Or at least, didn’t take the extreme stance he parroted on the air.

“Fenemy?”

“That so?” Cherry ran her fingers through your hair, straightening it. “And that’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

The last thing you wanted was to dwell on Vox after you made it back to your desk but he kept finding his way back to the forefront of our mind. The strong grip of his hands and the soft caress of his lips haunted you.

By lunch, you had the article on the rally written up, approved and published to the website and you were no closer to being free from Vox.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Your chair rolled behind you easily as you pushed back from your desk.

It had been ears since you’d been this hung up on a man and you hadn’t even gone on a date with Vox. There was no damn reason for him to be under your skin.

But you know what they say: The best way t get over someone is to get under someone else. And while you shouldn’t need to be ‘getting over’ Vox, it was about time you put that saying into practice. While. you should be researching, brainstorming your next article or working on your other projects, instead you pulled out you phone and clicked on Vinder.

Of course, Vinder. The leading hook up and dating app, was operated by an offshoot of VoxTek, the parent company of VoxNews and Vox’s pride and joy. What better app to find someone to get under to get over the man himself?

Who the hell were you kidding. You and everyone used Vinder, though you all said if the ‘right’ people made a competitive app you would all switch instead of supporting Vox’s creation.

You began flipping through profiles, swiping each one away with a glance.

Dud. Lame. Why was this guy holding a fish? Next.

And then you saw him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall.

Your finger hesitated before scrolling down instead of flicking him away. He was a business man, like Vox. He was looking for a traditional woman. Someone who enjoyed cooking and wanted to have a family.

He wasn’t the right kind of man for you but you lingered.

The more you read, the more sure you were that he was at least two of the ‘ists’. He was clearly sexist, though he wasnt’t out right saying it. He thought women had a role and that wasn’t the kind of partner you needed or wanted.

Except you were not looking for a partner. You were looking for a fuck. Someone to get your mind off the fuck you had last night.

“Fuck that.” You flicked him away and kept swiping.

You were determined until you found someone. The right someone. His profile said all the right things. His hair was long, colorful and he talked about how he did skincare and how rights mattered. All rights.

He wasn’t attractive, not in the way you wanted right now but he would do.

“Hey,” you sent after swiping, thus beginning the charade of ‘getting to know you’ that any wise woman participated in before allowing herself the risk of being alone with a strange man.

After a few days of shooting messages back and forth, you set a date. Friday evening. Dinner. Drinks. Sex was implied, though he was far too progressive to do anything but assure you it wasn’t required.

Except you found him on Vinder. And you both knew exactly what you both were on Vinder for.

It was all a part of the dance. It’s important to be politically correct.