Expiration Dating Read online

  “Come outside for a minute,” Andrew said. I did only because I had to pee, and couldn’t seem to find a bathroom. I told Andrew to hold tight for a second and ran off to the outer limits of the club, happy that this club seemed to have miles of outdoor property. I found a bush, took care of business, and tried to make my way back with dignity. The bouncer came up to me asking questions, and I swatted him away. Forget dignity.

  “You wanna dance?” I asked the bouncer. Being Italian, he didn’t understand what I was saying. That didn’t matter in my questionable state of mind, however. I laid into him, telling him something along the incoherent lines of it being inappropriate not to dance with a lady when she asks him. Mercifully, Andrew found me at that point and dragged me away to sit still for a minute.

  “Having fun?” he asked.

  “You betcha, babe,” I said. “Don’t worry, I don’t actually mean babe. It’s a saying.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. He peered down at his still full drink glass.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It is a saying because otherwise I wouldn’t use it. I don’t just call people babe, and I definitely don’t want to date you, so why would I call you a babe?”

  Andrew looked surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. “Who said I wanted to date you?”

  I couldn’t come up with a response. Instead, I swayed to the music some more. After some time, Andrew asked, “To satisfy my curiosity, why don’t you want to date me before I even asked?”

  “Because you’re American,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “…And? I don’t follow.”

  “I didn’t come here to hang out with Americans. Italians only for me,” I explained as if talking to a five-year-old.

  “Ah,” Andrew sat in thought. “That works for me.” Andrew stood and offered me his hands, “In that case, would you like to dance? As friends of course.”

  I let out a small, unflattering shriek. The Italian bartender had appeared behind Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Bella, we dance now.” His voice was sexy.

  “Si, si, si, si, si!” I sang as the bartender nodded to Andrew.

  “Ciao, Americano!” I shouted to Andrew as I left him standing outside. The Italian bartender and I danced closely for the rest of the evening. I was pleasantly surprised; he was a gentleman and didn’t try to kiss me (after I pushed him away once). I resisted leaving when Emilia and Kimberly pulled me to a cab.

  “Dana, it’s 3:30 and we have to be at class in like, five hours,” Emilia pleaded. I made a disgruntled noise. “Give him your digits and let’s go.”

  Since I still didn’t have a phone, he scribbled his name and number on a piece of paper. It read ‘Giuseppe.’ I had been way off.

  As we secured a cab, I looked out the window and saw Andrew and his housemates standing a ways off. They were staring intently at our cab. I waved, and Andrew turned away quickly, talking to Josh and Rob. Rob was his housemate from California, a real hipster dude that I had been introduced to at some point tonight.

  “Do you and Andrew have a thing?” I asked Emilia.

  “Absolutely not. What made you think that?” she asked.

  “I just thought since you came here together and go to the same school, that maybe…” “Oh no,” Emilia assured. “He just broke up with a girlfriend I think, to come here. And I had a boyfriend there.”

  “Had?” I asked.

  “He’s going to school in Louisiana, and he’s leaving Seattle while I’m abroad. I don’t know what we are now, but he won’t be there when I come back,” Emilia explained.

  “I’m sorry.” I touched Emilia’s leg. Kimberly had been jabbering away in Italian to the taxi driver. Either hitting on him or giving instructions, I couldn’t be sure.

  “It’s OK, what about you? Boyfriend?” she asked.

  I recoiled instantly. “No, no way. I dated one guy in high school for three years and we broke up just as I was going to college. I’ve been single four years now, all throughout college, and I plan on keeping it that way. Well, except for the last guy I dated. I found him in bed two days before I came here with a horrible girl that has lousy hair, but that’s beside the point. We hadn’t dated for long, and we didn’t even have sex so it doesn’t count.”

  “Ugh,” Emilia grunted. “Stay single, less complications.”

  After staring out the windows for a few seconds, she looked at me, flicking her eyelashes. “However, Andrew’s a good guy, so if you want to go for him, I support it. He’s not my type, believe me.”

  “Mine neither.” I grinned. “Mine is tall, dark, handsome and Italian.”

  I leaned back and we sat in contemplative silence for the rest of the cab ride home. I barely noticed the cab driver ignoring all red lights. Apparently the streets were free game after midnight, the stoplights mere suggestions.

  We attempted to be discreet entering the apartment, a major failure. Emilia clomped around in her five inch bedazzled shoes and I raided every cupboard in the kitchen looking for a single, measly cookie. There were none anywhere, so I had to settle for plain old bread. I really needed to go grocery shopping. I stumbled into bed.

  Chapter Eight

  Eight a.m. rolled around. I resisted waking up, reaching to my face to see if there were actual sandbags on my eyes. There were none, but it felt as if my eyes were glued shut. I finally coaxed them open and saw Emilia standing near the foot of my bed.

  “Let’s go.” she shook me awake. “Five minutes until we leave.”

  “How do your lips look like that?” I asked, conscious that I looked like a witch. Literally, my hair stuck out in all angles, I had a mascara smear on my cheek, and there were splotches of glitter on random body parts. Emilia tisked, she had no patience for my moans of agony.

  “We will leave without you,” she said. I thought we had bonded last night, but apparently her fun side got tucked away with the light of day.

  We arrived to class, and I poured myself into the same seat as yesterday. I didn’t even care anymore that it was front and center. I just wanted to sit. Crowded subways are not fun with a pounding headache. I put my head down on the desk between my hands.

  “You had fun last night, huh?” Andrew sounded amused.

  I peered at him through day old mascara, opening only one eyelid. It was all I could manage.

  “Is that sarcasm?” My voice sounded like a dying frog.

  “I’m just saying, you were quite the dancing queen.”

  “Oh yeah, and how would you know?”

  Andrew was silent for a minute. “Never mind.”

  I sat up, now alert.

  “What did I tell you?” I asked, memories of Andrew at the club flooding back to me. I guess I’d had more to drink than I’d thought. At least that explained my mangled state of existence this morning.

  “I just hope you found your Italian man.” He smiled at me. His teeth seemed so white they hurt my eyes, all the way through to the back of their sockets. I leaned over to retort, but only managed to grunt in dismay as the teacher began lecturing. I had to watch out for the invisible alcohol from now on. When it came time to partner up again, I grudgingly turned to Andrew and accepted his offer to be partners. With our disastrous Italian, it was impossible not to laugh at our conversation attempts.

  “I think this is asking what you like to do,” I whispered to Andrew. I was cheating, speaking during ‘no English time.’ Andrew raised his hand innocently. The teacher came over.

  He looked up and asked, “How do you say drink?”

  The teacher showed him in the book where it read ‘bere.’ There was a picture of a glass of orange juice. It made me sick to even look at the cartoon. Andrew nodded as if absorbing a profound statement. She began walking away and Andrew said, “Dana ti piace bere mucho.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Andrew non é fun,” I said. The teacher of course heard my comments and gave me the evil eye.

  “Italiano!” she roared.

  Class
ended and we meandered slowly into the hallway. I stood with Andrew, waiting for Emilia’s class to let out. My stomach growled.

  “Coffee shop?” Andrew asked. A tradition was born.

  We headed across the street with Maggie hovering behind us like a lanky shadow. She seemed to be part of our world about twenty percent of the time. The rest was spent somewhere in daydream-land. I ordered a caffé and a croissant. The barista delivered my food to the table, and I paused for a second to admire the handcrafted heart on top of my cappuccino.

  I instantly knew I’d discovered my new hangover cure; the warm croissant was filled with oozing chocolate while the outside edges flaked off as they touched my tongue, melting like butter. The cappuccino warmed my insides as it washed everything down, accompanied by the added bonus of a caffeine jolt. I moaned, basking in the gloriousness of the warm, gooey chocolate. Andrew gave me a funny look.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,” I warned. “Let a girl eat in peace.”

  Andrew cleared his throat and stirred some sugar into his bitter, very tiny, cup of espresso.

  “So, do you have plans for lunch?” Andrew asked. I gave him a look, partly because my mouth was full and partly because I was surprised at the question. I kept chewing and looked down at the remainder of my food in response.

  “I mean real food,” he said. I did a head bobbing motion saying neither yes nor no. I then spotted Emilia across the street and waved. She headed in our direction.

  “I should probably head back,” I said through a mouthful of crumbs. “I haven’t really set up my room yet.”

  I swallowed and took another sip of the heavenly foam.

  Andrew nodded. “Sure, well do you have a number? It’d be fun to meet up one of these nights, on purpose.”

  Again, I was slow to respond. It was the croissant; I couldn’t stop eating it. He took my response as a negative. “I mean, bring Emilia, bring whoever, it’s just that none of us really knows anyone here.”

  “No, absolutely!” I swallowed again. “I mean yes, but no I don’t have a phone yet.”

  “Ok, well-” Andrew began.

  “Hey, guys! Dana, wanna head home? I have a Skype date I need to make,” Emilia said.

  “Sure.” I got up and hurried out behind Emilia, waving goodbye to Andrew. Maggie must have wandered off somewhere, I realized after getting on the metro.

  We disembarked, and I dragged my feet into the apartment complex. Emilia flounced in ahead of me, the picture of well-rested and energized. I admired her endurance. I crawled under the sheets of my bed and closed my eyes.

  I was just drifting off as I felt a piece of paper under my fingers. It was crumpled and showed signs of dried sweat, but nevertheless I could make out the name Giuseppe and a foreign phone number. I rolled over and realized the bartender from the previous night had given it to me, and I must have slept with it clenched in my hands. I lifted up my pillow and saw a pile of scattered European change. The left over cab fare. I had been so exhausted coming home I didn’t even bother to let go of the phone number or the cab fare!

  I closed my eyes and slept.

  When I awoke, it was dark out. I heard Emilia cluttering around in the kitchen as I reoriented myself with the world. I slowly shuffled in and joined her. I peeked over her shoulder and saw an array of lettuces, grains, mushrooms, all sorts of tasteless, green healthy things.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Emilia didn’t even look up.

  “Whatcha cooking?” I ignored her comment.

  “Vegetarian quinoa salad.” She glanced at my cupboard, which was bare except for my last container of Pringles from America. “It’s healthy.”

  “Right.” I grabbed a muffin from the counter.

  “So, did you hear from Andrew about tonight?” Emilia asked.

  I stopped chewing. “What’s tonight?”

  I swallowed.

  “Le Banque,” Emilia pronounced in a beautiful French accent. “It’s a dance club in the Fashion District. It’s not very well known, but it’s supposed to be very chic.”

  I nodded, digesting the information. I wondered why Andrew hadn’t asked me during class.

  “When did you talk to him?” I asked.

  “Just now. He texted me… on my new Italian phone!” she showed it off, wiggling it around in my face. There was already a bejeweled cover on it. How did she get her shite together so fast? However, the news was at least slightly promising. Andrew could either be mad at me for blowing lunch off, or he didn’t know how to get a hold of me. I chose to believe the latter.

  “Do you wanna go?” she asked again.

  “I slept like ten hours today. I don’t really have an excuse not to.”

  “Excellent.” Emilia smiled. “I just bought my first real Italian Louboutins, and I absolutely need to try them out.”

  Later that evening I poured wine for Emilia and myself, as we lounged around post dinner. After some precursory channel surfing, we realized that not one channel was in English. However, there were some MTV shows broadcast in the English language. It was funny to watch Jersey Shore dubbed over in Italian; it still didn’t make the show any more authentic. In fact, they were the opposite of Italians, only with the good fortune to have inherited an Italian surname. The cast members were orange, trashy and overly made up. True Italians, I had discovered, were well-kept, minimally made up and generally very thin.

  Emilia finally urged us from the couch, and we spent the next forty minutes curling hair, trying on outfits and gossiping about the others in our program. If I was honest, that’s how Emilia spent her next forty minutes. I spent mine lying on my bed, refilling my wine glass and trying to get a last nap in.

  “You need to get ready,” Emilia said. She flicked my calf. I continued to watch her apply fake eyelashes.

  “I never understood how you do that,” I said, lazily scratching the area where she’d poked me.

  “If you spent more time and effort on your appearance, you’d find it wasn’t so difficult,” Emilia said. “You know, jeans are not meant to be a punishment. They’re comfortable.”

  “Maybe if you’re a guy and you can wear them baggy and sagging halfway to your knees.” Emilia threw a pillow at me and I managed to sit up and start thumbing through my closet. Emilia had graciously given me half of my closet back.

  “Will Andrew actually be there?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, I assume so,” Emilia said, then stopped moving. “Why are you so interested?”

  “Just curious.” Emilia held my eye contact for another second, and then turned back to her lipstick application process. We finished the last touches and did an examination in the mirror.

  “Here’s to Italy, new friends, new experiences, new… everything!” I announced over a shot of cheap Russian vodka in the kitchen. Emilia and I caught the last metro, barely, and arrived at Le Banque shortly after midnight. We had taken a plastic, cocktail filled water bottle for the road, which had gotten us quite giddy on the metro ride. I stood in line, not quite able to stand still; I already could feel the beat inside the club, and I wanted to get in there and dance.

  We made it past the door guards, the only mishap being a brief argument where Emilia forced me to hand over the spiked water bottle to Security. Clutching our two drink tickets like a lifeline, we quickly checked our coats and headed for the bar. Emilia and I leaned against the counter, trying to get the bartender’s attention. An Italian with greased back hair, a button down shirt complete with chest hair hanging out, and dark shades on, indoors, sidled up towards us.

  He glanced at Emilia, attempted to smile, failed miserably and settled on a smirk. He bobbed his head to the music. A five-year-old hit, a pop song, pumped through the stereos. I tried to ignore him, glancing out at the dance floor and seeing the first few brave souls start crowding onto the platform. I turned back just as the Italian leaned in towards Emilia.

  “What is your name? I want to say your name – over and over again,” he spoke in heavily ac
cented English. I let out a snort of laughter. Apparently Italian pickup lines were song lyrics regurgitated in various forms. Emilia tried not to smile, but was also unsuccessful.

  “No,” she said, turning to the bar. She then saw a new friend from class, waved, and hurried off saying she’d be back in a minute. As soon as she left, the bartender turned his attention to me.

  Emilia had left her drink ticket with me, so I took the liberty of ordering us both the dreaded invisibles. I handed over my drink tickets, and I suddenly felt an unfamiliar body behind me, too close for comfort. I tried to turn, but then realized the person’s arms were on either side of me, trapping my body against the bar. I squirmed around, but the crowd was too close, forcing me and this stranger together. I felt the warm breath against my ear before I heard the voice.

  “Do you want to dance?” Andrew asked. I left the drinks on the table and whipped around in his grasp.

  “Uh,” I said, once again chest to chest with Andrew. He raised his eyebrows at my two drinks chilling on the counter.

  “Is this a bad time?”He smirked.

  “No, it’s, they’re not both–” I stopped midsentence as I saw the grimy Italian approaching again. Clearly no was not universally understood anymore.

  “Sure,” I said.

  It worked; the Italian opted to change his route, trying to spit out the same lyrics to a new girl. Andrew and I made our way to the dance floor. I sidled past Emilia en route and handed off one of the drinks. I raised my eyebrows helplessly, and she just smiled and gave me a finger wave. At the edge of the dance floor, I put my finger on Andrew’s shoulder.

  “One sec,” I said as I sucked down the red-tinted liquid courage. No sooner had I finished the last loud slurp, than Andrew grabbed the glass from my hand, set it down, and twirled me out onto the dance floor. At first, it was awkward. It was an unfamiliar event for me to be dancing sober at a bar, and the feeling of discomfort was exacerbated by the fact that my partner was Andrew.

  However, as soon as the second song hit, I was feeling much looser and let myself go a little bit. The third song, a favorite of mine, began to play and by this time I was clasping Andrew’s neck in my arms, leaning my head on his solid chest and moving back and forth to the beat. It was the most effortlessly in sync I’d ever been with a dance partner. I smiled, touching his coarse hair. I’d been curious to know how those curls felt for awhile. I picked one of the ringlets and pulled it out lightly, letting it spring back against his scalp.