Good Mistakes

4.5: Bad Movies and Good Nights Cont.

His apartment is nicer than I remember. Probably because I was first drunk off my ass and undressing Michael and then utterly embarrassed and hoping to escape the last time I was here. Either way it's not quite what I'd expect what with dark wood furniture mimicking the so-not-worth-it name brand things Allyson filled our living space with, dark leather sofa and patterned accent pillows and decorative figurines and candles arranged on the coffee table.

I try to imagine Michael Clifford, pierced and tattooed in his ripped skinny jeans walking through an Ethan Allen (or even more expensive place, yikes) pointing at furniture, or even scrolling through a catalog or sitting down with a designer and spotting the perfect cobalt pillows to alternate with the bright tangerine ones, but I can't. It's easier for me to imagine him walking into this place pre-furnished, asking if there was WiFi and then signing a lease without even reading it. For some reason I laugh audibly at my own thought, and of course Michael walks back into the room just in time to catch me.

He doesn't say anything (thank God), just strolls into the room and drops the Scrabble box onto the coffee table. Then he sits down on the floor and crosses his legs, because why sit on a couch when you can use it as a backrest?

"Come. Sit. Let's get the party started." And I snort ( and hate myself for a seconds after) but go sit across from him anyway and then we're playing Scrabble and I'm kicking ass.

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"You're a liar and a cheat! Not very attractive qualities." Even though I'm laughing as I say it.

"I am not. You're the English major. You should know these words."

"I majored in Writing not English and they're different. Totally different degrees why doesn't anyone understand that?"

"Same thing. You should know all these words."

"You made them up!"

"Poetic justice?" He cocks his eyebrow.

"Do you know what that means? That is not what that means you can't just make up words." I try to sound serious but I just let Michael beat me at three rounds of Scrabble. And he broke out beer. I've only had like one (and a half) but it was enough to make everything a little more funny to us than it should be.

"You know what you are?"

"Nope. Tell me, sir, what am I?"

"A fun sucker." I snort.

"You are too serious. You and your only using real words in Scrabble."

"Me?" I shake my head and lean across the table. I think (hope) I'm making a serious face. "I am tons of fun. I do fun stuff all the time."

"Name one fun thing you've done in the last week." Um. Um. Oh!

"I watched Netflix for like six hours uninterrupted over the weekend. And I ordered some stationary online and it was fun. So many options! It was basically shopping except I didn't have to leave my room and talk to actual people."

"That actually sounds so depressing. That's not fun, babe." Babe babe babe babe babe Michael called me babe. "-out somewhere tomorrow. Or even stay in. But just me and you. You need to experience fun."

"Are you asking me out Mr. Clifford?" Ballsy, Lena.

"If that's ok." Oh.

"That's ok. That's perfectly fantabulously ok."

"You just made up a word! See I knew you had in you."

"I think it's in dictionary but whatever. Let's watch a movie. A fun movie. Cause I'm fun."