Defenestrated

Don’t ask me why I can remember every useless fact ever, yet forget that I’d set my typewriter on the windowsill in the first place.

I stuck my head outside just in time to see it smash into David’s brand new truck—David, who lived across the hall and whose name I knew because his mail occasionally appeared in my box. David, with his shaggy, brown hair and electric green eyes. My typewriter punched through his windshield. It left a gaping hole surrounded by a spider web of cracked glass in its wake.

Shit.

The alarm blared.

Shititty shit shit.

Why did I have such a large ass-to-apartment ratio? Why was I rearranging furniture on a Saturday afternoon? Why was David already at the scene of the crime?

The world’s fastest runner can reach speeds of twenty-eight miles per hour.

The cardboard cup he held dropped to the sidewalk and coffee splattered at his feet. David killed the alarm and turned toward our building. His eyes climbed to the fourth floor, and when his gaze met mine, I did what any self-respecting female in her twenties would do in this situation.

I hid.

A minute later, someone knocked on my door. It must be David, unless he called the police. He’d probably called the police.

I was going to jail. No one would believe this was an accident.

I inhaled deep. Time to open the door on fate. This was the last time I’d see my tiny loveseat. My tiny bookshelf. Or my tiny dining room table where I wrote a tiny column about the intersection of dating and technology: Orgastic Future. Basically, my ‘adorkable’ life as a single millennial.

I turned the knob. David stood in the hall with my typewriter in hand (as if it didn’t weigh a thing). He wore a gray CrossFit shirt that accentuated his muscular build. Of course he did CrossFit. An unpublished piece titled, ‘Sexcuse You,’ was still clamped to the cylinder.

“Is there a reason you defenestrated this?”

Defenestrate. Verb. To throw someone or something out a window.

My stomach twisted, and my cheeks flushed. No one ever knows that word. David knows that word.

“Um . . .”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who even owns a typewriter?”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it. I was rearranging—”

“Whoa! I love what you’ve done in here. It looks twice as big as my studio.” He stepped inside and set the typewriter down with care. “I hope it still works.”

“Same. I mean, about your truck. Please, don’t call the police—”

He studied me with his green eyes and then grinned. “My truck’ll be fine. I have good insurance. Really good insurance. I specifically asked about falling typewriters when I bought my policy. No one’s calling the cops. Now, if it had been a computer—”

I laughed. He had a sense of humor. He worked out. And he wasn’t going to send me to jail. Swoon. “Thank you.”

He winked. “No problem. They say if you can get through the first ding, you can get through anything.”

I didn’t remind him it was more than a ding. “Would you like coffee—to make up for the cup you’re wearing?”

He looked at his jeans. Brown droplets speckled his shins. “Oh, sure.” He made himself at home at the table.

I poured a mug. “Cream?”

He declined. “I read ‘Sexcuse You’ in the elevator. Do you write Orgastic Future?”

“You can’t read that! It’s personal. It’s like reading my diary.”

“You have a worldwide audience. And a spinoff on cable.”

Our fingers brushed as he accepted the mug. “Touché.”

“So,” he said. “You’re single, right?”

Single. Adjective. Unwed. Of or relating to celibacy.

“But not celibate. It’s an important distinction.” Did I really just say that out loud? Blood rushed to my ears so fast I heard it. Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking. “Are you celibate?”

His smile quirked. “Celibate? No. Your column’s hilarious. I loved the one where the fire department rescued you during a Tinder date.”

“Oh yeah.” That one still haunted me. Bad for my self-esteem, but great for my career. The piece that had gotten my column syndicated and quadrupled my salary.

He sipped the coffee. “I wouldn’t have believed your hijinks except—”

“I defenestrated a typewriter through your windshield?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

Was it just me or was the temperature in my apartment rising? I opened my window wider. A breeze ruffled the curtains and I sat beside him. When our knees touched, my stomach fluttered.

David leaned toward me. “There are easier ways to invite a guy to coffee.”

“Don’t tell my editor that.” I didn’t recognize my voice. The breathiness. The lowered tone.

A lowered voice indicates sexual arousal.

“For example,” he said. Dear god, his voice lowered, too. “Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

Yes. So many times. Yes. I crossed my legs, aware of the anticipatory pulse between them. “I was going to watch a movie with friends.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

I didn’t have a movie planned, I was rearranging furniture. I tucked my hair behind my ear and said, “I’ll text them and cancel.”

“Good.” He stood. “I’m going to see a guy about my truck. It’ll probably be in the shop tonight. Let's find something within walking distance?”

I nodded. “There’s a tapas bar around the corner.”

“I’ll meet you here at seven.” He opened the door and paused. “But I’m the only fireman invited. Unfortunately, I was off during your . . . incident. The crew still jokes about it.” He grinned mischievously before he closed the door behind him.

Firemen spend one out of three nights at the station.

That means the remaining two nights can be spent doing other things. Like joining their non-celibate neighbor for dinner instead of sending her to jail.

For example.

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