Sunglasses Man

A few months before I moved to New York, I stumbled into a New Year’s Eve party with some friends of mine from high school, where our parents lived in suburban Pennsylvania. I’m not sure whose party it was; I was already drunk when we arrived. I’m pretty sure the host was my friend Vicky’s manager at TGI Friday’s. To a bunch of wide-eyed suburban girls who had recently graduated from high school, having your own apartment is a pretty big deal.

I remember sitting with the resident of the dingy one- bedroom walkup, letting him fill my almost-empty Smirnoff Ice with glugs of Grey Goose as he bragged loudly about the new Blackened Chicken Alfredo dish at Friday’s. A few of his friends walked over to inform me that the alfredo dish also came with seasoned parmesan bread. “It’s, like, the best bread we’ve ever had,” a curly- haired waiter insisted. Apartment Guy high-fived him before topping off my Smirnoff Ice again.

An alluring figure stood next to the curly-haired waiter, stoic and silent. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, at night, in the middle of winter. Even in my drunken haze, it was clear at that moment that I had to remove them. Nothing irked me more than unnecessary accessories.

I stood up, wobbling, and tried to grab the sunglasses. He batted my hand away but the glasses dropped to the floor. I saw his eyes flash ice-blue, like an evil cartoon wolf. “Watch it, those are titanium,” he said, as he shielded his eyes like I had just exposed some shocking, Phantom of the Opera-type disfigurement.

“Sorry,” I said. I tried to compose myself. He was wildly attractive to my drunken eyes, a suit-wearing Ryan Gosling with black, severe hair hanging over his ears and just down the nape of his neck. Even though I was too tipsy for good judgment, I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of this guy. After bumbling around on the floor for a few long seconds, I retrieved the sunglasses, which were, thankfully, not broken. He put them on greedily, then immediately resumed his cool.

“Wanna go out on the patio?” he asked, waving a pack of Marlboro Lights. It was freezing, but I was wasted, so I said, “Okay.” I made a mental note to see if he took the sunglasses off when we went outside. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” I said, after a few seconds of smoking in silence. “What’s with the sunglasses?”

“I have 15/20 vision,” he said. “My eyes get sensitive when they’re exposed to light.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking about how my eyes tear when I emerge from a dark room on a summer day, but I never make some huge damn deal about it. “Don’t your eyes eventually adjust?”

“Not really,” he said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. A few flecks of ash blew onto my hand. He was a boy of few words, so I kissed him to break the silence.

We kissed on the balcony for a while, pawing at each other. Then, stumbling, he led me into a small closet off the deck for the hot water heater. Safe inside, he pushed me against the concrete wall, and unbuttoned my shirt with coarse, sensual hands. As I took off his suit jacket, I couldn’t help but feel like I was undressing some undercover police officer or a cast member fresh from the set of Men in Black III. I tried to lift the sunglasses, but he held them steadily over his face with his hand. “My eyes,” he reminded me. I shut mine, trying to forget about the titanium frames jamming into my nose as we kissed.

Soon we were on the floor with the closet door shut, and I was unzipping his pants. When he groaned and shivered, I knew it was time: I slipped the sunglasses off and lay them on the ground. He didn’t try to reach for them. His eyelashes were long and beautiful.

I woke up with my drool-encrusted face jammed against the floor. An unfamiliar, hairy arm touched the small of my back. As stiff as my neck felt from spending a night on concrete, I wriggled back and forth as fast as I could to loosen the arm. Crouching like cat, I turned to face my sleeping partner. A pair of sunglasses stared back at me. He must have slipped them back on in the middle of the night without me noticing.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Sunglasses Man.

I stood up, startled.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, noticing some blotchy, ingrown stubble on Sunglasses Man’s neck.

I put on my shirt, trying to line up the buttons correctly, but Sunglasses Man just stared. Or maybe he had his eyes closed, I really have no idea. His nose whistled when he breathed.

“I’m gonna head out,” I said, carelessly jamming my second button into my third buttonhole.

Sunglasses Man zipped up his fly. “Can I get your number first?”

“No,” I said, traipsing out of the water-heater closet as casually as I could. As soon as I shut the door, I raced to the bathroom to throw up. I wasn’t sure if it was the New Year’s Day hangover that nauseated me, or the idea that I had just slept with a guy because of his sunglasses.

Sunglasses Man ended up getting my number from one of my friends, and he called me that night. After a long, awkward conversation, he confessed that there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and that he wore the sunglasses because he thought they gave him a certain mystique.

Sunglasses Man remains my only one-night stand.

Lindsay Champion is a writer in LA. Her first time didn’t know it was her first time.
lindsaychampion.blogspot.com

Andrew Wilson is an artist in San Diego. When his time comes, he wants to die with a paintbrush in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other.
andrewandavid.blogspot.com