This body, these curves, and movements — they're so intoxicating.
Eyes, lips, and skin, everything seems so familiar as if they were mine to possess.
Is she a stranger?
She knows all my preferences and anticipates all my desires?
The rays of sunlight shone on Weston’s smiling face. Weston sat up on his bed pondering, never did a dream seem so real it made him doubt his sanity. Slumber burdened his eyelids, which hoped to close and dream again.
Weston stretched and turned away from the relentless rays of the new day to face a wall, no a delicate spine of—.
Weston tugged and lifted the sheets to confirm the presence of a pantiless woman.
“Good God,” yelled the man springing away while he clung to the sheets close to his own naked body.
Sound asleep, the man’s gestures did not shake or stir the stranger as Weston slipped out of bed like a catfish to assess the unseemly situation.
“First put something on, Weston,” for once the heavens helped as his trunks were at his feet.
“Now glasses,” his rims waited on his nightstand.
“Okay, who are you, Miss?” Weston whispered as he walked around his bed to take a glimpse of the woman’s face.
“Oh my good God,” gasped the man placing a hand in front of his gaping mouth. Though he was in the reassuring space of his home, Weston wanted to run.
“Tilda Brentwood no-no-no Tilda Brentwood—,” Weston muttered, blinking twice, hoping to chase the mirage away while praying it would stay. Tiptoeing closer Weston knelt and lifted a few strands of curls to contemplate the marvel.
“Tilda Brentwood,” he whispered, placing his hand on his heart, from this day forth, I believe in miracles.
Tilda groaned, making the man shoot up, shit; she will wake up and discover she slept with a measly nobody, a community manager.
Panic struck, the man backed away; for him, Tilda was heaven-sent, but what would Weston represent to her?
An error, a one night stand, one would be willing to be lobotomized to forget having spent a night with someone like him.
GET OUT, was the only words suggested by Weston’s intimated mind; he had to leave. Like a thief, Weston grabbed the first jogging bottoms, which fell in his hands, a gray t-shirt, socks, and phone.
Weston hurried to get dressed in the living room, “calm down, Weston, you slept with the It-girl of the moment, no big deal, I mean it’s just Tilda Brentwood, it’s just Tilda —,” the words allowed themselves to faint in his mouth in the place of his body which he quickly clothed.
Once finished, Weston fell on his knees, “I slept with Tilda Brentwood,” he covered his face like a damsel and shaking from side to side like a shy anime character.
“Okay, get a grip on yourself, Weston.”
The newly one-nightstand man needed help, and for that, Weston tapped on one name he thought would find him a solution.
Michael picked up straight away.
“Hey, Weston, my man, you left the bash early. You got me worried. What happened?”
Weston covered his mouth spy style not to have his lips read though there was no one in sight,” she happened, and she’s here right now.”
“What, hold up, what you mean Tilda is here?—what-what — where are you?”
“I’m in —, my apartment, and Tilda— Brentwood is sleeping, in my bed,” Weston said, almost hyperventilating.
“Okay, breathe, Weston, inhale, exhale, WTF— what do you mean you slept with Tilda? You bang-banged and stuffed the bun?”
“Please, don’t speak like that; how can an editor have such foul expressions?”
“The editor can because he didn’t fuck numéro uno the hottest chick of the moment.”
Weston was close to dying; that’s how famous the woman whose snores invaded his living room was.
Not wanting to wake the beauty from her slumber Weston made his way to the door,” help me, Michael, what am I going to do when she wakes up?”
“What-what sort of help do you need? Ask her if she enjoyed her night and tell her your geeky arse is free anytime for a nightly Lambada.”
“You are not helping.”
“Where are you now?”
Weston locked his phone between his ear and shoulder to slowly close the door to his apartment, “I’m outside of my apartment.”
“I want to give her time to bail out without seeing my face; I’m going to Jerry’s café. I’ll wait here a little. I’m sure when I come back, she’ll be gone. That’s how these types of situations go, right?”
“You idiot, get back in there and take pics.”
“Someone should lock you up, Michael.”
“What, I’m just trying to see the benefits of his all. You can’t blame me for looking at all the options. By the way, how was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
Weston barely recalled how they got back to his apartment from the party.
“What do you mean you can’t remember, one embosses things like this in their brain for life? Stop lying, Weston. No one screws a celebrity and forgets about it.”
Weston couldn’t tell Michael; he decided to take the secret of his night with Tilda to his grave. The images were like a distant dream; the sensations engraved themselves every inch of his body. Everywhere Tilda’s fingers and lips touched throbbed in yearning.
At that magical instant, too, Weston murmured her name before falling into the arms of Morpheus.
Micheal’s wake up calling voice brought Weston out of his flashback, “you are a selfish bugger, but at least you have material you could add to spice your next book.”
“Sorry, Michael, but I will not include this experience.”
“What a shame. How long are you going to stay at Jerry’s?”
“I don’t know, half an hour, maybe.”
To be accurate, the half an hour became 2 hours, Weston couldn’t bring himself to go back up, but he had too. As he opened his door, he prepared his heart to welcome the mandatory one-nighter note.
The smell of fresh coffee hit Weston’s nostrils as his eyes confirmed what he dreaded. In the middle of the kitchen, wearing one of his white T-shirts, stood the curly brown-haired woman.
Weston’s eyes widened; she was even more beautiful awake. Tilda’s radiant smile pierced a hole in his chest, making his heart leak with desire.
“Sorry, Weston, I borrowed one of your T-shirts. My red carpet see-through dress seemed inadequate for breakfast.”
“Oh, —em, it’s okay. You-you know my name?” Weston asked, shocked to think she registered it.
“Well, em—. ”
A goddess knew his name. Weston looked about to see if there weren’t any hidden cameras.
“You know mine?”
“Of course, yeah, who doesn’t? I mean, you’re Tilda Brentwood,” Weston said, stretching a hand out as though he was welcoming the singer on the stage before crossing his arms, realizing the possible ridicule of his gesture.
“Yeah, of course,” Tilda replied with half of a smile, which quickly disappeared.
“—Em, Weston, I want to let you know this isn’t a habit. It’s a first. I mean, I don’t do this kind of thing with anyone.”
In other circumstances, the man would have done one or two cartwheels, but in front of what seemed to be Tilda’s awkward moment, it was inappropriate. The singer’s eyes darted from side to side, fidgeting only to calm down once hugging herself as she tried to explain, almost apologizing for the incident as if she had slapped him on the face.
Nah, a rising star wouldn’t hit on someone like him, would she? Weston thought.
“I better be leaving,” Tilda said, turning to go to his room, “—eh, Weston, can I borrow a pair of shorts or something because my dress, —well it’s daytime, and I don’t want to call my agent or PA and expose you to privacy invasion.”
“Oh, I understand; wait a minute.”
Weston went to his room and searched; she had a thin waist. What could Tilda fit? Joggers, Tilda could tug on the strings.
Ten minutes later, Tilda, dressed like a hobo on heels, was ready to leave.
“I’ll take you to the door.”
“—Em, I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what. It must have been a shock finding yourself here with a guy like me. You probably want to hang yourself; I would if I woke up next to myself, not that it would be possible —I mean, I’m sorry, maybe I should stop talking.”
Weston face flushed red with shame, feeling as though he craved his tombstone.
“—Em, it wasn’t ba-, Weston I-I’ll -bring back your clothes.”
Great, she thinks you’re a psycho.
“No, worries you can keep them,” Weston said.
A few awkward seconds stood between them as they both wondered how to part decently.
The two finally opted for a clean-cut handshake.
“Goodbye, Ms. Brentwood.”
There was no talk about the evening; they were like two strangers who only shared coffee for speed dating.
A celebrity she was, yet Weston received her goodbye like the slash of a knife in his heart, and the slamming door made the blood gush out.
Tilda was gone. Weston dropped down on his couch before regaining his room to clean the evidence. Too emotional, he collapsed on his bed, spreading his hands on the sheets, which still held the heat’s scent. Something pricked his finger, making the man sit up to grasp the culprit of the sting.
Cinderella left a glass slipper, and Tilda’s signature was an earring.
“Tilda,” Weston whispered as the earring twirled in his hand, making rainbows on his walls as the rays of light hit them.