“Oh,” Madison groaned, “my cramps have been cramping my style since Wednesday.” She folded over and clutched her belly. “I’ve been having a bad case of the Monthlies all day today.”
“See,” I giggle-sniffed, “you don’t need me adding more blockage to your hoo-ha than you’ve already got.”
She shook her head. “I’m serious, Sam. If it becomes a problem, and you need a place, you’re welcome to my apartment. Jake and I can always go to his house.”
“Wow, Mads, I totally appreciate it. Based on the way my job search has been going, you may have more than one monthly visitor in February.” I hoped my joking would disguise my imminent tears of gratitude.
“As long as you don’t make my cramps any worse, I will consider it a blessing,” she groaned. “I feel like I’m going to give birth to a tampon baby.” She grunted. “I think it’s going to be a redhead.”
Grimacing, I set the remaining half of my fish taco on my plate. “Well, I’m done eating.”
Madison cackled with laughter, “Sorry!”
SAMANTHA
Christos and I had dinner on Sunday night, but that was it. Groan. Had my predictions been right all along? Was he going to always be too busy with his burgeoning career to find time for a relationship with me? I hoped I was wrong.
On Monday, I went to the campus art museum after History class to report for my first day of work.
Mr. Selfridge turned out to be totally cool. He showed me how to operate the cash register and explained the ground rules. This job was going to be cake.
“We don’t get a lot of traffic during the week,” he said, “mainly art students like yourself. They come in to study the paintings and sculpture, and they get in free with a valid Student ID. But you do have to punch them in.” He showed me how on the cashier’s computer. “When it’s slow, feel free to do your homework behind the counter. Just make sure that you set your work aside for any customers.”
“Got it,” I smiled.
“Well, that about covers it. I’m going back to my office. If you need anything, ring my phone. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Mr. Selfridge,” I smiled as he walked back into the museum.
The museum didn’t have a gift shop, but there were a number of books behind the counter for sale. Since no one was coming in, I perused the shelves. One of the books was ‘Retrospective: A life outdoors, the art of Spiridon Manos.’ I picked it up and flipped through it. So much beautiful work. I’d seen a few of these paintings in Spiridon’s home, but most were new to me. He was truly an amazing landscape painter. I flipped to the back of the book and saw that most of his paintings were on display in major museums around the country, even a number in Europe. Wow, Spiridon was a total art rockstar.
And his grandson was on the way to being one too.
Over the next several hours, three people came into the museum. All of them were art students, two I recognized from Life Drawing and Oil Painting class.
This job was super easy, which was perfect because I had homework to catch up on.
During a lull, I texted Christos.
Thinking about you. <3
I hoped for an instant reply. Nope. It took about ten minutes before he texted, I’m always thinking about you, agápi mou. Miss you.
I replied, I miss you more ;-) What are you doing right now?
I didn’t receive a response. Sigh.
I opened up my Sociology reading and did my best to read through the assignments I’d fallen behind on. I kept checking my phone, making sure I hadn’t missed an incoming text. After half an hour with no response, I made sure my alert volume hadn’t somehow been turned off, or that my battery hadn’t died, or that aliens or hackers hadn’t hijacked my phone and changed my phone number.
Nope, everything was fine.
Except Christos was too busy to text me back. Should that have bothered me? I don’t know, but it did. Was I being too needy?
Eye roll.
When it came to being needy, what was the official demarcation between “too” and “the right amount” of needy?
Groan. I didn’t want to be the pathetic desperate girl who clung to her boyfriend’s knees everywhere they went.
Maybe I needed to conduct a poll and figure out a hard number regarding appropriate levels of neediness. Whatever that number turned out to be, I was pretty sure with all of my time apart from Christos, I fell on “the right amount” side of the needy line.
My phone bleeped.
Christos: Sorry, agápi mou. In the middle of things. Ran out of painting medium, had to run to art store. Miss you love you need you. :^*
I sighed contently. Not because I was “too” needy and needed to hear from my boyfriend right at that moment to set me at ease, because I had already established that in all likelihood I fell into “the right amount” category when it came to neediness at all times; no, my contented sigh was appropriate for any woman with the “right amount” of neediness. Because I knew it was “right” that I should be pleased to receive such a text from my boyfriend.
Telling me he needed me.
I wasn’t needy at all.
Nope.
I was normal.
I texted Christos back, I miss you too, my love. Can’t wait to see you tonight! <3 <3 <3
Was three text-hearts too needy? No. Four text-hears would definitely have been too needy, but I’d only used three, so I was good.
Too bad I ended up alone in my apartment that night and fell asleep cuddling my history textbook because Christos had too much work to do and told me it was best I not come over.
Was I disappointed? Of course.
Was I being “too” needy?
NO!!
It was “the right amount.”
No more, no less.
Sigh.
SAMANTHA
On Saturday morning, a knock at my front door woke me up from my lonely bed. I dragged myself out from under my snuggly covers and trudged to the living room. Wow, my week must have been harder than I’d thought! I needed coffee badly.
I opened the door.
Christos held up a big cup of coffee for me. “Morning, sunshine!”
“Christos!” I was so glad to see him. It seemed like forever since we’d been together.
“I thought you could use some TLC this weekend, agápi mou.” He leaned in and kissed me before walking inside my apartment. “Venti Americano, half coffee, half half-and-half, right?”
“Perfect,” I smiled, taking the cup in both hands and inhaling the wonderful aroma before sipping some.
“I brought appetizers,” he said, holding up a bag of apple fritters. It turned out, Christos had known all about Thai Doughnut and their awesome apple fritters long before I did. “I also brought breakfast,” he said, holding up a bag from the grocery store.
I grabbed a plate from the kitchen and set one of the apple fritters on it. Christos and I pulled pieces off and nibbled on them while we sat at my little round dining room table and sipped our coffees.
“You ready for an omelet?” he asked.
“Sure!”
“Okay, you sit, and I’ll cook.” Christos went about dicing onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms, chopping up a bell pepper, and heating up some butter in one of my skillets on the stove. He cracked eggs into the pan and put some bread in the toaster. When the eggs were solidified into a spongy yellow disc, he sprinkled cheese and vegetables on top, then folded it over before serving it up with buttered toast and strawberry jam.
“Wow, Christos. You cook better than I do. You got everything ready all at the same time. That’s an art form.”