…continued from the previous entry
Sunday. Fifth date. Cute Theatre Boy and I haven’t seen each other in almost a week- due to house guest presence- and at this early stage 6 days has been a looong time. The plan is all-American classic: dinner and a movie (not in that order). I’m generally not a fan of the movie date. Not only is talking (good conversation being the key to a good date) completely inappropriate but I also get distracted by the reactions of my date. But after 8 hours at work on my feet regaling: “Hello. Welcome. To enter go next to the escalator around to the entrance in the back. There’s a free coat check in back of me, restrooms on your left.” sitting in comfy$12 seats sounds excellent.
Unfortunately (debatable assessment), as we sit down in our seats, lights dim, movie starts, I am indeed completely distracted by the person sitting next to me. We quickly become one of “those” couples (much to my chagrin on one level and enjoyment on another) except we are both trying very hard to not annoy those in back of us. We basically become like two eighth graders whose chaperons are sitting mere rows behind (by the way from here on Parental Discretion is Advised for this entry. Which really means I think my mom reads my blog. Mother, dear, if you are reading this…please stop!) ; trying to be discreet but probably failing miserably (although no dirty or knowing looks were cast our way, maybe just maybe 20 somethings have more mastery of subtlety than 13 year olds). P.S. all that said, I did actually watch (most of) the movie (which was Vicky Christina Barcelona, some how still in an indie theater- only in NYC) and thoroughly enjoyed it. Fine, don’t believe me.
Movie over. Out of theater. On the sidewalk. He pulls me aside. Close. Ok. If you’re really hungry we could figure out somewhere to get dinner but… I kinda have to have you right now. Screw subtlety! Sex vs. Food? No contest. The dinner part of dinner and a movie is on hold. A short (debatable assessment. It did not feel short, but at least it was shorter than six days) subway ride later, we’re back at his apartment (on the cusp of Harlem and the Upper East Side, it’s nice…ah I’m a sucker for boys with Manhattan apartments).
Things are getting started. We’re on his bed. Smooches. States of undress. In the same way he told me he had to have me right now he purrs in my ear Lie Down. I comply with gusto. With enthusiasm. With fervor. With apparently all that (and more) and a mighty swift motion meant to send me back in the pillows but instead BAM! &(#*@!!! OUCH!!!!OW!!! The back of my head connects hard with a nightstand the boy has (STUPIDLY) placed in back of his bed. The pain is sharp but not overwhelming. I decide I can shake it off. Are you ok?? I’m tough. Yes. I am delusional and have a unnerving tolerance for pain.
Kisses later my head is still pounding. The “shaking it off” plan is not going as well as hoped. I put my hand up to the collision site to gauge what kind of mammoth bump to expect in the morning. I touch my head and feel wetness. WHY IS MY HEAD WET? Are you sure you’re ok? Fuck! No! Fuck! Lights come on.
FUCK! we exclaim in unison, looking at the blood spattered all over the head of his bed. BLOOD. From my HEAD. Shaking this off is clearly not an option. Fuck! As the back of my head is not easily accessible to me, he checks out its situation.
Diagnosis: There is good new and bad news. The good news is it’s not deep and it’s small. The bad news is, I think we should go the the ER.
Cue me freaking out. Me trying convince him it really isn’t that bad, not hospital bad, come on! Him not agreeing. Me getting out of denial then freaking out about insurance. Him being totally calm. Me freaking out about calling my parents. Him holding my hand while I call them. Me: “Uh yeah Mom…I uh…hit my head..on…a desk! Yes! The corner of a desk!” (MOM, I told you to stop reading! Did you really want to know your daughter is a liar? Among other things?? Now you must just pretend it’s fiction. I mean, it is!) Him searching for the nearest hospital. Me some how not crying. Him finding a hospital that’s 4 blocks away. Me asking if I really, really have to go? Him getting me out of the apartment. Me walking down the street with a bloody head. Him actually keeping my freak out level pretty low, all things considered.
We walk to the ER. Where else would one ever do that but in New York? When we get there I’m faced with many forms and the unprecedented task of convincing hospital officials that Cute Theatre Boy is not, swear on my life, NOT domestically abusing me. Then about a three hour wait before I actually see a doctor. Followed by me freaking out when I am told they are going to put TWO STAPLES into my head. Then feeling bad ass. STAPLES.
The boy is amazing through the whole thing, stoic, couldn’t have been better. I can’t help but think of all the jerks who would have freaked out more than me, abandoned me at the hospital, or agreed with my denial “I don’t need the hospital!” diagnosis. That’s what the cliche New York man would do. Guess the boy’s not a New York cliche.
It’s after midnight by the time I’m all stapled up and ready to leave. He’s almost faint with hunger, I’m running off adrenalin but know my body needs food. We get burgers at a 24 hour diner, my head freshly stapled, blood still stuck in my hair. The next day he helps me wash my hair, a delicate process as sterilized water must be used. It’s something I don’t feel comfortable doing by myself and he agrees to help me wash my hair until the laceration (that’s not me being dramatic, that’s the word the doctors used!) has healed some what.
After sleeping most of the day (necessary recovery), I meet my house guest for dinner in Little Italy. She doesn’t believe my story, until I show her the staples. She doesn’t say this but I can see it in her eyes: Yeah, karma’s a bitch! Teach you for ditching me for a guy! Though staples?..that is pretty harsh. The next day her stand-by plan fails and she ends up staying with me the full ten days. For fucks sake karma, enough already! Nope, not quite.
Two days after the accident I’m back at Cute Theatre Boy’s place. He’s helping me wash my hair as arranged. Pouring the cold sterilized water on my head, making sure the wound is clean. I’m shivering from cold. Then seeing stars. The world is closing around me. Hearing myself say I don’t think I’m okay… From far away I hear, Lean on me. The next thing I know I am waking up on the floor of the bathtub. I fainted dead away in his arms.
I thought dating an actor would be dramatic, but nothing prepared me for all this.
Epilogue: My wound healed perfectly with no complications. I asked if I could keep the staples. They said no. We decided the fainting was due to the drastic temperature change of water on my head. My house guest finally left at the end of 10 days; unfortunately, she and I haven’t spoken since.