The sad thing is, we hit it off great in our emails, chats, and two short phone calls. I really liked him and thought he liked me, too. I blew off at least ten other guys who replied to my ad because I thought Drew was going be the one…or would at least lead to something more. Those other guys probably would have turned into psychos or shallow jerks, too, as that seems to be the pattern for me lately.
It's nine thirty by the time I climb the dilapidated stairs to my apartment, which is not in the best of neighborhoods. I'm not even sure how I thought I was going to get home if the date had gone well, because there is no way I would have let him drop me off here. I suppose I should be glad things didn't work out or I would have been walking home at midnight, or later, dealing with God knows what kind of freaks hanging out in the dark corners of my sketchy neighborhood.
Once inside, I can't get my shoes off fast enough to relieve my aching feet that now have icky, painful blisters.
Dammit.
My reflection in the full-length mirror in the hallway outside my bedroom stops me and I face it to study myself, trying to see what he saw. What everyone sees…or doesn't see.
What's wrong with me?
I'm not ugly. Am I? My thin frame is slightly curvy, balancing out my height of five foot three nicely. The jeans hugging my hips aren't name-brand, but they fit me perfectly, held up by a woven, brown leather belt with a hammered brass buckle shaped like a heart. The black angel-winged blouse with the colored paint splatters is one of my favorites. Aside from the jeans and shoes, I made everything myself. Boho is how my style would be described—a mix of hippie and bohemian that's comfy but pretty cool, earthy, and timeless. Apparently, the model didn't approve.
Not put together.
Hours of my time were spent creating the belt, buckle, and dyeing the blouse to get the splatters faded just right. Hours of assembling with my own hands using what little money I could save.
Jerk.
Pulling my clothes off as I walk into my bedroom, I toss them into the bin with my laundry for the weekend, pull on an old, oversized T-shirt, and then climb into my bed, taking my cell phone with me so I can call my friend Katrina.
"Tell me everything!" she screams when she picks up.
"It sucked."
"Sucked? How? Why?"
Sighing, I pull the thin comforter up to my chin. "He walked in, took visible inventory of me, then said I didn't look 'put together' and wasn't his type, so I politely left."
"Not put together?" she repeats. "What the hell does that mean?"
"I'm not sure. I thought it meant sloppy. Frazzled, maybe?"
"What in the actual fuck, Asia? You are gorgeous. You hand-make your goddamn clothes and they are beautiful. He can go eat a dick!"
"He was really hot, though."
"He can still eat a dick! It's his loss, honey."