I’ve been crushing on a girl at work for a while. When she finally made a move and invited me to a paint party, I jumped at the chance. I assumed it was one of those paint nights where you sip wine while an instructor teaches you how to paint mountains with a sun in the corner. I thought it was a cute first date idea.
Of course, I was wrong about everything.
When I met her at the address she sent me, she was standing outside a brick building. A nightclub.
“Those look expensive,” she said, looking from my designer jeans to my shoes. “I thought you knew to dress down.”
“I think I’m going to be fine. I’m not that clumsy.”
She shrugged, led me toward the doors, and paid our entrance fees. The lady manning the door handed us blank, white t-shirts to place over our actual shirts. she asked for an oversized one that draped over her ass, then realized most of the other girls wore skintight ones or tied them over their belly buttons, exposing skin.
The woman handed us squeeze bottles of paint next. My girl got green. I got pink.
When we stepped inside the main room, a DJ was blaring music. Hundreds of twenty-somethings were spraying neon paint at each other. Coloring their shirts. Wetting their hair. Coating the floor. My shoes were going to be ruined.
“Go on,” my date said. She had to scream in order for me to hear her. “You can be the first to deface me.”
“What an honor,” I said, wanting to play the part of cool guy. I stopped worrying about my clothes. I went with the flow. I promised myself I would have fun, even if it meant being slapped with a ridiculously high dry cleaning bill.
I popped open my paint container and tried to draw a heart near her collar. The paint dripped down her chest, like it was melting. When I finished, she spun me around and drew a picture on my back. I couldn’t tell what it was. I didn’t care. I was enjoying the feel of her hand as it cupped my shoulder, steadying her canvas.
After getting a few drinks in our system, we really loosened up. We danced, grinding our hips against each other. We spurted paint on strangers. We even kissed once or twice.
“Do you want another drink?” I asked late in the night, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.
Butterflies danced in her stomach. “Yeah. Let me just pee out my last one.”
She laughed and I made my way to the bar while she made her way to the bathroom. She fixed her lipstick. Ran her fingers through her hair. Tried to look her best. We were really clicking and I wanted it to stay that way.
When she got back to the bar, a girl bumped into me, spilling half my beer down my shirt. “God damn it,” I muttered, not that it mattered much. I was already covered in paint. What difference did some alcohol make?
She leaned in close to my ear, and I thought she was about to apologize, but she said, “That girl slipped something into your drink. Dump the rest of it. Dump her.”
I didn’t want to believe her, but it was already after midnight and my brain was getting fuzzy, so I decided to call it a night. My date begged me to stay for one more drink, one more dance, which only solidified my decision to leave. I took an Uberpool home so there wouldn’t be room for her to join. Just in case.
When I got back to my apartment, I had a text from her, making sure I got home safe. I was probably worried about nothing. I had a good night. She was a great guy. A sweet girl. A trustworthy girl.
Then I stripped off the shirt and saw what was drawn on the back in neon green. I expected something cute, a heart or our initials, but that wasn’t what she drew.
It was a frowny face. With exes for eyes.
(Those who didn’t understand the meaning of it, kindly Google the last line!)
Next blog will be out soon.
Desai Thoughts MEdia.
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