"Until I trip on it and break my neck. How about some sweats or something?"
"Bottom drawer on the left, help yourself."
I found a Minnesota sweatshirt that was long enough to cover me to mid-thigh, and rolled up the sleeves. Alec said, "I thought you wouldn’t wear Golden Gopher sweatshirts?"
"I can’t wear a little black party dress on Sunday morning. Would you want me to look like a little slut?"
"I wouldn’t want that," he said with a wink. (NB: I don’t know whether Fictionmania can post lettering in italics. We’ll just have to burn that bridge when we come to it. I have a work-around, if it should be necessary.])
I blushed crimson at his comment, and my resentment poured out in a flood. "I wouldn’t have come over if you hadn’t given me so much to drink. I’m not used to those martinis, and I didn’t know what I was doing. So I’m sorry if that makes me a little slut. I mean, an under-aged little slut. But what does that make you?" I asked accusingly.
Alec looked crushed. "I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant."
"Well, that’s what you implied, and it really hurts. First you got me so drunk you had to carry me up the stairs, and you had intercourse with me when I was half passed-out, and now you’re insulting me." Tears filled my eyes. It was partly an act, to flush him out, but I really was insulted.
"I didn’t mean it that way! I thought that you wanted to . . . I mean, that you wanted me . . . and I wouldn’t have done anything, if you hadn’t wanted me to. I guess I just fooled myself. I’m sorry," he said with apparent dejection. .
I decided that I had deflated him enough and it was time to give him some slack. "No, I probably would have wanted to, if I had been in any condition to decide," I lied. "Just maybe not so soon. It feels like we just did it because we were drunk, and on our first night out. You know, that’s really not the way I am."
