John wanted to take me out again. I was thinking, John is a freaking monster and I should really stop going out on dates with him before he eats me. So when he asked, I said, “Yes.”
There was something about him and the way he didn’t kiss me on the first date. Maybe cyclopes are a race of monsters that are insecure about their kissing or maybe it’s just gentlemanly that he didn’t. Either way, something about it made me happy.
So he said we should go to a house party which translated to “MONSTER HOUSE OF DOOM THAT WILL EAT YOU.” I guess it sounds irrational to some people, those are people that die in monster houses of doom.
“Will the house come to life and eat me?” Yeah, I said it. Right to John’s face.
“What? No, why would it?” he said back playing all cool, all like “I’m not the guy that leads the lamb to the slaughter.” But you know what, I, Molly, am no lamb. I ask the right questions so I don’t get all lamb-slaughtered.
“Because . . . it’s . . . a . . . monster?”
He laughed and have I mentioned yet how cute that laugh is? So, I, Molly, am not a lamb because that is when I put my foot down and said, “Oh, John, I would love to go to the lamb-slaughter with you.”
He ignored the lamb-slaughter thing like a good little cyclops.
So he picked me up again, promptly, and gave my roommate (dateless again-in your face) plenty of time to look over his hunkly-hunkyness before we went to the lamb-slaughter.
John complimented my dress again and this time I’d been prepared. I wore my favorite pink dress with a little purple middle to make me look super cute. Not to impress John but because everyone knows the prettiest girl survives the lamb-slaughter/monster house party, I was banking on it.
So off we went to the lamb-slaughter.
When we got there, I was glad I wore my classy dress because it wasn’t your typical drunken, college house party. Everyone was dressed nice (minus the odd nymph [as in like wood nymph] dressed in leaves [literally]). It was a monster party, or it wasn’t. No one noticed the nymphs (other than oogly-eyed boys) so I didn’t discuss it. I pretended they didn’t exist, since they probably didn’t—schizophrenia is a complicated psychosis.
And then you know what happened? We partied and we danced and we played Uno as a drinking game which just got worse and worse because the more you lost the drunker you became and the drunker you became the more you lost.
And we had fun. Normal, not monster fun like the night before.
And when John smiled at me I had butterflies in my stomach and how those bastards got in there, I don’t know. Butterflies are scarier than cockroaches because apparently that whole stomach acid thing doesn’t get them down, no sir.
Then John ran into his ex-girlfriend.
She wasn’t, isn’t a cyclops. No, you remember the leaf clad women running around in leaves? Yeah, one of those. Tall and blonde and legs for days. The perfect girl and it made me think, “Why is John with me?”
And she stared at me. Lovingly. Like, want to jump your bones and spend the rest of my life with you lovingly.
“John, you have to introduce me to your date,” she said sounding all lusty and a 1-900-number lady and what she really meant, I’m sure, was “Can I borrow your date for an orgy? Please and thanks.”
He looked at me and smiled. “This is Molly. Molly, this is my ex-girlfriend, Anna.”
“Hi,” I said with a pathetic “I’m intimidated by your beauty and creeped out by you” wave.
Then he promptly directed me away to the dance floor. This was much welcomed.
And then whoever’s iPod was directing the music played a song that we could slow dance too. As a girl, one, such as myself, must resist urges to squeal at the moments that you’ll look back on forever and smile about. That said, we slow danced and I realized that our relationship was off to a good start because in that moment we had a song.
And that is when, for the first time, John kissed me. He dipped me and kissed me like that classic WWII photo of the sailor and the nurse that makes everyone in love feel giddy inside.