Now, I’ll come into the room, we’ll say “Hey,” to each other and that’s about it.

She’s avoiding me, although I can’t imagine why.

In the grand scheme of things, my not telling her about my real job is an annoyance, and I can see how it would be somewhat disrespectful, but it’s really not that big a deal. It’s not like we’re close friends or anything.

Then again, I’m starting to get the feeling that it’s something else entirely that’s bothering her.

The good news is that I haven’t been fired yet. The bad news is that Jim’s been avoiding me, too.

Oh well.

Right now, I’m sitting in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium, receiving a nice, relaxing blowjob from Wrigley. I made a joke to her that we were at the wrong field, but she didn’t get it.

At this point, I don’t know if I could really go back to normal sex.

It’s something I fought at first, right up until we got up to the roof of her building. Now, I’m just as much an exhibitionist as she is. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I still don’t like actually getting caught.

It happens more than you’d think.

I come and, within five flat seconds, Wrigley is asking, “What time’s the game?”

“I think it already started,” I answer. “Then again, the cheering crowd might have just been a psychosomatic thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s a demon in the sack, but she has a real problem with nuance. Given our present location, I was tempted to ask her for a hand-job, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have gotten that, either.

“Never mind,” I tell her.

I might feel like I was using her if she didn’t make it so abundantly clear on such a frequent basis that the moment feelings are exchanged, she’s changing her phone number and moving to a different apartment.

“Take me to dinner,” she tells me.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I heard about this French place called l’Iris—”

“Don’t eat there,” I interrupt. “It’s fucking filthy.”

“How would you know?” she asks, poking me in the ribs.

“I’m the chef there,” I tell her. “Seriously, you have no idea what they do in the kitchen when I’m not around.”

Hey, at least I’m over my fear of telling women what I do.

“I didn’t know you’re a chef,” she says.

“Yeah, actually I—”

“Where would you like to eat, then?” she interrupts.

Apparently, women aren’t nearly as crazy when it comes to the whole chef thing as I thought.

“I really don’t care,” I tell her.

“You really don’t have tickets to the game?” she asks. “You’re such a cheap fuck.”

“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?” I ask.

It’s strange, but I think I’m actually becoming a one-woman man. It’s even stranger that the one woman I’ve decided to keep coming back to is so vehemently opposed to us forming a relationship with any kind of attachment other than pure lust.

Dinner, it seems, doesn’t count as non-sexual.

“Both,” she answers casually.

“We can go to the game if you want,” I tell her.

I bought the tickets on a whim last night. I really wouldn’t mind something a bit more serious, but I wanted to get the sex part out of the way before we got into the stadium. Otherwise, there’s no doubt in my mind that she would spend the whole game trying to figure out a way for us to do it in the stands and not get arrested.

Come to think of it, I don’t know that she would have a problem getting arrested while having sex. Knowing her, it’d probably just be that much more of a turn-on.

“No,” she says, “that’s okay. I’m a Mets fan anyway.”

The horror.

“I think they’re playing the Mets, actually.”

“Dane, I should be honest with you.”

It’s that exact phrase, said that exact way that gives honesty such a bad rap.

“I hate baseball. I said I was a Mets fan because I had no idea the two were playing and I really just wanted to get out of it. I’m actually kind of relieved you just wanted to stop here for a quick one. We really don’t have to go to the game.”

“Ah,” I say.

I turn the car on and put it in reverse. As we pull out of the stadium, I’m just wishing I hadn’t spent the money on the tickets.

“So,” Wrigley says, “have you talked to your roommate?”

“About what?” I ask.

“You know,” she says. “Things are getting kind of stale, you know, with your unwillingness to be my bitch.”

I can’t believe this is how she really talks.

“I’m not following,” I tell her.

“Have you had the conversation? Is she down for a three-way, or am I just flicking the bean to the complete wrong thing here?”

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “Despite its ramifications to your bean-flicking, I don’t think that Leila would—”

“Leila?” she asks. “Your roommate’s name is Leila?”

It’s about here that I realize Wrigley and I really don’t talk much about anything that doesn’t have an orgasm at the end of it.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”

“That night on the roof,” she says. “Are you a complete idiot?”

“What are you talking about? What about the night on the roof?”

The question’s no more out of my mouth than its answer is in my brain.

“You called out her name when you came,” she says. “You’ve got a thing for your roommate.”

“I really don’t—”

“It’s cool,” she says. “I told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet she’d be my bitch. She’s the quiet type. Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me her bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the room flashing my honeypot.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”

If my tone weren’t so hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.

“What the fuck is your problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle. I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m curious.”

“You know I find it really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t want to share his plaything.”

“She’s not a plaything,” I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to shit in a real hurry.”

“You’re telling me,” she says. “Why don’t you call me when your fucking balls drop?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I tell her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: It’s because you’re out of your god damned mind.”

“News flash? What is this, the seventies?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just drop me off here,” she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”

“It’s a rental car!” I shout.

“Why would you rent a car anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”

Ah, the age-old male dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her out on something that resembled an actual date, or do I lie and figure out a way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?

“I wanted tonight to be special,” I tell her.

What the hell am I doing? I decided on the lie.

“Special? Giving you a knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special night?”

“I wanted to take you to the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”

“Pull the fucking car over,” she says.

This isn’t the easiest task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.

“I told you I didn’t want any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”

“What? You’re going to catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to double-park.

“Don’t call me,” she says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”