I met Meghan, an advertising account executive, on Coffee Meets Bagel at an Irish Pub close to her neighborhood. Though it was supposed to be a ‘one drink’ kind of evening we ended up incautiously tossing back quite a few more cocktails than originally planned for a Tuesday night.
I walked Meghan back to her Upper East Side apartment building and with clear conviction she insisted I accompany her for a night cap that was ever so unnecessary considering our level of intoxication at the time.
But alas, like any warm-blooded male being lured in by a bewitching young blonde, she prevailed and I retreated up the stairs to her 5th floor walk up one bedroom apartment.
We never did get around to that night cap, but you can imagine what did occur that evening.
We subsequently passed out scantily clad on the couch only to be awoken by someone in the kitchen making no effort whatsoever to be inconspicuous. The drawers slamming and feet stomping had me slightly perplexed given the fact that the apartment was a one bedroom that could not have been greater than 500 square feet.
How in the hell could this chick have a roommate in this shoebox of an apartment?
The mysterious kitchen dweller then aggressively entered the living room and contentiously demanded Meghan write him a check for the utilities owed that month.
“I will get it to you by the end of the day. Chill out,” she said.
Obviously becoming more irate he replied, “If you weren’t so busy bringing home random dudes and fucking them in our living room a week after we broke up and paid more attention to your responsibilities maybe we could coexist more peacefully until the lease is up.”
As they continued to engage in a tempestuous verbal altercation I quickly gathered my clothes to head for the proverbial hills.
Meghan sent me a text hours later to apologize for omitting the fact that she was still cohabitating with her ex boyfriend and suggested that next time we go to my place instead.
No thanks, Meghan. No thanks.