“That’s strong,” Margot sputters.
“Yeah, well most people don’t take shots of twelve-hundred-dollar scotch.”
The flicker of shock on her face quickly gives way to sarcasm. “That’s because most people aren’t stupid enough to spend twelve-hundred-dollars on something that’s just going to make them feel like shit in the morning.”
“It was a gift.”
This doesn’t seem to change her opinion on the matter at all. She sets her empty cup back down on the desk, nudging it my way with her fingertips. Wordlessly, I fill it back up for her.
“Sip on this one,” I tell her.
She takes a tiny sip then sets the cup down on the desk.
“So, do you want to talk about it?” I offer.
A long pause follows. I watch Margot’s expression transform several times as she wrestles with the answer. “Would that be weird?” she eventually asks.
“It’s not weird for me if it isn’t weird for you.”
This topic falls squarely outside the realm of our normal conversations, but I think we can handle it. There’s nothing that Margot could say that would shock or offend me. I’ve seen it all. Done it all. After my last relationship ended, I swore them off entirely. One-night stands just suit me better, and I’ve had more than my fair share of interesting ones.
Margot’s green eyes flick up to meet mine, looking unsure. She gnaws at her bottom lip for a second. When she finally releases it and starts to speak, the words sound wobbly and strained.
Over the next hour, Margot regales me with the tale of Jeremy and his brilliant idea of proposing an open relationship to a woman who’s probably never even looked at another man. Apparently, my first impression of him was correct: he’s an idiot.Margot is restrained and teary-eyed when she starts telling the story, but halfway through the second cup of scotch, she’s fired up and no longer holding anything back. Her hands wave around wildly as she tells me how happy she was that he had asked her out on a nice date. How she even thought he might propose. She tears up again as those words leave her mouth. I pass her another napkin, and she quickly blots her eyes.
“And the worst part is that he didn’t even wait to ask me,” she says. “He just downloaded some app and started screwing other women. As if I was just going to accept it and start fucking other men.”
Her mouth clamps shut, and her cheeks turn pink. She glances up at me with an apologetic, albeit unnecessary, grimace then polishes off her cup of scotch.
“He cheated on you?” I grit out.
Margot gives me only the smallest of nods. Her cheeks deepen a shade, as if she has anything to be embarrassed about in this situation. Jeremy is the one who should be fucking mortified by his actions. He’s lucky she didn’t punch him in the face on the way out of the restaurant. Even luckier that I don’t march down the street to Sapori and take care of that myself.
Monogamy might not be for me, but I still respect it. I’m always upfront with women about my intentions. I’m not looking for anything serious, and the women I date are well aware of that.
“He says it was just one woman, just a couple times, but…” Margot trails off and shrugs, averting her watery gaze.
“I’m sorry, Margot,” I say, my voice thick and coarse.
She gives me a sad little smile, more a shrug of her mouth than anything else.
There’s nothing I can say to make it better. When she nudges the empty cup my way, I fill it with scotch. It’s all I can do for her right now.
An hour and another refill later, I realize that I miscalculated. Badly.
Margot is a small woman. No taller than five-foot-two with a small but curvy frame. Four paper cups of scotch on an empty stomach are apparently enough to get her drunk.
On the plus side, Margot has transitioned from sad to angry. Anger is good. It means she won’t fall for her ex-boyfriend’s groveling when he inevitably realizes that he made a mistake.
“You should have seen the ravioli hats,” Margot says while making a strange motion with her hands that is obviously meant to clarify her statement.
It does not.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, unable to contain a smirk.
“And the tablecloths,” she adds. “Like spaghetti isillegal.”
This time, when she passes her little paper cup back to me and eyes the bottle hopefully, I shake my head. “I think it’s time to switch to water.”