Instead, I line it all up on the kitchen counter and decide to come back to it later.
Back in the living room, I survey the boxes for a more productive task. The IKEA boxes catch my eye, and my thoughts drift to Margot’s date. I don’t have a great feeling about Pony Boy, but I can’t tell her that. She’s determined to move on. I get that, but part of me wishes I could spare her the inevitable letdowns.
Maybe I should have done more to warn her, even if she wouldn’t have listened.
To the rest of the world, it probably seems like my life is a stream of great dates and amazing sex. But to be honest, most of it just blurs together. It’s the same drinks, the same conversations, even the same sex. I’ve learned to weed out the truly disastrous dates, but what’s left can be monotonous. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy it, but it’s hardly fireworks every time. More like a pan set on simmer. It’s steady, predictable, it gets the job done. After everything that happened with Rachel, I don’t know when I’ll be ready for another committed relationship. Maybe never.
For the first time ever, I find that thought sort of depressing. I redirect my attention to the task at hand: assembling a dining room table and four chairs.
My phone chimes as I’m screwing the last leg onto the table. When I reach for it, there’s a text from Margot waiting. It contains one word:Home.
It’s barely eight o’clock. Her date didn’t even last an hour?
Without thinking, I tap the button to call her. She answers on the second ring.
“Bad date?” I ask.
Margot’s heavy sigh comes through the phone as static. “We just didn’t click.”
It’s the same conversation we had a couple weeks ago in my living room, but in reverse. I smile, not at her misfortune, but at the shared memory.
My amusement is short-lived though when I think of Margot sitting in her empty apartment on a Friday night, probably overanalyzing what went wrong.
“Did you eat already?” I ask.
Scoffing, she gives me a resounding, “No.”
Sounds like there’s a story there, and I’m dying to hear it. It’s not every day I get to hear a woman’s perspective on the absurdity of this whole online dating thing.
“So, you know how you don’t have any furniture?” I say.
“I have a bed… and a chair,” she objects.
“Right. Well, I currently havea lotof furniture, and it all needs to be assembled by tomorrow morning. I could use some help, if you want to get out of your apartment for a while.”
“Yeah, that sounds good, actually.”
“Okay, I’ll order a pizza and text you the address. You can regale me with the tale of Pony Boy when you get here.”
Before she can object to my choice of wording, I hang up, order a pizza, and get back to work on the table.
Half an hour later, Margot rings the doorbell. When I answer, she’s standing there in a pair of jeans and an oversized gray sweater, holding a six-pack of beer.
“I’ve never seen you drink beer before,” I say, stepping aside to let her in.
“It’s just some fancy cider. Alcohol hasn’t been kind to me lately, and I doubt it would be conducive to assembling furniture.”
Margot’s gaze swings from me to the room in front of her, and her jaw drops. “This is so much stuff, Ethan. How are you going to finish all of this by tomorrow morning?”
“By bribing my assistant with pizza and hoping she’s comfortable with a power drill?” I joke.
Calling her my assistant feels strange now. It’s too formal, too distant. Over the past few weeks, our friendship has transformed from something murky that only exists within the confines of the office to something that feels real and solid.
We sit on the dining room floor, eating pizza and assembling chairs, before I ease into asking about her date.
“So, tell me about Pony Boy,” I finally say.
Margot keeps her eyes on the chair, twisting a screw into place with a little more force than necessary. “He brought me a unicorn, one of those little plastic ones from the dollar store.”