Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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Erik and I have this game we like to play - and no, it's not a sexual one. Though, we do have a fair amount of those, some fan favorites include: how fast can you take off my clothes; how many times can I make you come; and how long can I tease you before giving you an orgasm?
But unlike those games, that typically include us garmentless and rolling around in the sheets of Kayden's guest room, this game focuses on the financial side of being in a relationship. Yes, I'm talking about us squabbling over who's going to pay.
Not in terms of the after-effects of having too many late night cuddle sessions - me, or deciding that they want to spend the rest of their life with a complete and utter psycho – him.
No, I'm talking the cold hard cash that comes to play in real life; the credit card that when you swipe too many times in one month, ends up giving you a ridiculously high bill.
I mean, I know that I went to Starbucks everyday last month - but does that really add up to a bill of over $300? The short answer - yes. The long answer that you receive after waiting on hold for customer service for three hours - yes, and please stop crying to us over the phone.
Granted, my credit card has somewhat gone into a hibernated state since Erik and I began spending time together. And by spending time together, I mean being glued to each other's ass, anytime he's in town, like some conjoint twins that have been forced to be with each other for life.
"Welcome to MacDonald's. What can I get for you today?" The voice says, sounding like it belongs to some young and enthusiastic eighteen year old. Oh, how I remember what it was like, being young and full of life. I'm so glad I'm an old and jaded bitch, now.
"Hi, how are you?" Erik asks, earning himself the title of that one guy that always feels the need to make extensive small talk with service workers. Sometimes I think it's sweet; that even though he's a big famous hockey star, he still treats every person he meets with kindness and respect. But sometimes I'm hungry; and just want to get my fucking fries without him making another Facebook friend.
The girl on the other end pauses - as if she's seriously contemplating the events that have led her to this point in her life; or, she's wondering why someone acting like an old grandpa, has the voice of a husky 23 year old.
"I'm great. How're you?" She eventually answers, partaking in the social construct of what I like to call Pleasantry Ping-Pong (aka what happens when you're forced to make small talk with someone you'd rather not speak to).
Neighbors that spend way too much time in their front yard; strangers in the elevator that feel the need to spread their hum-tastic mood; and worst of all, that person waiting in the lineup in front of you, that feels like somehow because you're both waiting to pay $6 for a cup of coffee, you've already been classified as best friends.
"I'm great, thank you." Erik responds, his eyes running across the options on the menu, as if he's a Disney Princess, internally singing about all the possibilities of the world. "Can I please get a McChicken meal with a medium fry and a bottle of water?" He says, making his order sound more like a question than something needing to be punched in.
"One McChicken meal with medium fries and a bottle of water. Is that everything for today?" She asks, not realizing that her question is about to prompt a volcano to explode - arguably, all over her face.
"Could I also get 2 Big Macs, a large fry, a medium Coke, a bottle of water, 4 chocolate chip cookies, and ten chicken nuggets?"
On the other end, there's a pause - possibly the girl wondering if he's joking, or being serious. At least, that's what I assume she's doing, because she asks him to repeat his order about 3 times before finally grumbling something about him driving through.
I can understand it. I know there's no such thing as rules in a drive-thru - but coming from someone that prefers as little human interaction as possible, I usually prefer to order on one of the screens inside. There's nothing better than being able to peruse through the menu, before finally deciding on the same thing that I always get.
Though, sometimes I do go rogue and get something shocking like an Oreo McFlurry; sometimes if I'm really feeling like a bad ass, I'll add caramel sauce. But those days are few and far between, because quite frankly there's no way to eat that stuff everyday while managing to maintain your same size.
I'm not like some girl in a romance novel - or every heterosexual man's dream, that's able to gorge on food everyday whilst maintaining a size 2. Which let me assure you, I definitely am not. I'm more like a size 6, maybe even a size 4 if I cut my portions in half and take a really good dump. Sorry, TMI?
"Hey, how are you?" Erik asks when we reach the first window, a girl around my age, greeting us on the other side. She clearly knows who he is - a theory confirmed when her face goes red and she loses the ability to speak.
It takes a full 30 seconds before she finally remembers how to talk - and even then, she sounds about as starstruck as me if I were placed in front of the Jonas Brothers. And I do mean pre or post breakup and reunion, because teenage me was a very big fan of Camp Rock.
"Uh, um, you're total's uh, $42.21." She finally says, her eyes flickering back to the screen like she's worried she'll accidently recite her phone number instead.
"For sure." He says, giving her a friendly smile as he pulls out his credit card. I nudge him, gesturing to the debit card that I had already provided him - and I don't mean a few seconds ago. No, I mean before we got in the drive-thru; before I even agreed to come here.
"I got it." Is all he says, before tapping his plastic against the machine. My plastic on the other hand? No, it's not in my boobs - though, some days I seriously wish it was. No, my plastic is just sitting on his windshield, laying back like it's sunbathing on the beach.
I hope it gets a nasty burn.
"Thank you." Erik says to her, when she informs him that the transaction went through. Okay, well she doesn't exactly inform him - he waits a couple moments, waiting to pass back the debit machine, before she finally takes the hint.
Inside, I'm imagining a clan of fan girls sprinting towards the next window - anxiously anticipating the arrival of as they call him, the King. You think I'm joking, but going pretty much everywhere with him has opened my eyes to exactly just how much people idolize him. Which if I'm being honest, makes me feel kind of weird. Like, am I supposed to ask for his autograph while his dick is inside me, or would that be considered impolite?
"You were supposed to let me pay." I remind him, furrowing my eyebrows as he pulls forward to the next window. We're in that awkward position where the car in front of us hasn't yet moved - and the person behind us is staring at us like we're massive assholes, because they don't have enough space to reach the window.
At least, I think that's what they're thinking. Though, I do have the habit of assuming what other people are thinking - whether it be co-workers, strangers, or even my boyfriend. It's a bad habit; but kind of like a heavy smoker in their seventies, I don't think one I'll be shaking anytime soon.
"I like taking care of things." Erik tells me, looking over with the slightest tinge of amusement in his eyes. Whether it's because there's a double meaning intended behind his words, or because the person in front of us has a bumper sticker that reads "do you follow god this close?", I'm not sure.
"Hey, how're you?" He asks when we finally reach the second window, after waiting an eternity for the person in front of us to get their stuff. I don't know what it is, but the moments when I'm most hungry, seem to be the same times when people decide to order for their family of 12, from the comfort of their car.
Unlike at the other window, at this one, we have a middle-aged man. He's dressed slightly nicer than the others, which makes me think he's the manager. And he also looks like the type of guy that would accidently touch a teenage girl's backside, which confirms my theory.
And I'm not talking out of my ass, I used to work at MacDonald's. You know, before the world found out that I was a digitally home-wrecking whore.
