Nice person
By: Dayle Fogarty
Tags: Cra, Writing, Fiction, Short Story, Creative Writing

Where am I?

Confused, nauseated and feeling as sore and stiff as my Great Aunt Bess, I prop myself up onto my elbows. I can tell blurry-eyed that I’m on a mattress with no sheet, lying face down and I’m…butt naked!

I scan my surroundings. Sitting up I pull the blanket around me for…what…modesty? Look, that’s clearly out the window.

I don’t recognise the room. Music posters, an acoustic guitar in the corner, and lots of clothing bundles on the floor. As panic begins to rise I thankfully spot my dress and underwear on the floor. I jump up in one swift movement. The dress is over my head and hugging my body again. Midway through reefing up my undies…

‘Heyyyy…’ The door creaks open and a fresh-faced man pops his head in before the rest of his body follows. He continues speaking, his body language conveying embarrassment, ‘…so this is awkward…I’ve never…I’ve never brought a… a…errr…worker home.’ He rubs his neck, his face growing bright red.

I bet my face appears red too. I’m furious, but perhaps more at myself than this sorry looking sap.

‘Well…’ I swallow my pride and clutch at any shred of decency I have left when I inform him. ‘I’m not a prostitute…’

I was going to add and I’m happily married but we all know if that were true I wouldn’t have woken up in a stranger’s bed. Instead of defending my virtue and an attempted portrayal of innocence, I am lost for words. I begin to stumble over a few of them and look around the room to find the rest of my things to farewell this mammoth mistake.

He’s talking but it becomes clear he’s still under the impression he has to pay for my services. ‘It’s just…you were there…last night. We got talking…’

‘I know. I was there,’ I answer as I place my shoes on. Flashes of the night before appear. The tiki bar, the bad dancing, the filthy shots with my friends, playing pool, and…

‘You were by yourself, you said your friends had abandoned you…’

That they had.

‘We got talking and drinking more and then it became clear you were…not — ’

‘Look, it’s fine. I’m going to get a taxi home. Thank you for having me,’ I answer with an abruptness I rarely ever hear in myself.

As I head for the door he moves aside but gently reaches for my arm. ‘Sorry…I’ve just not done this before. You seem really nice. Sorry if this has really creeped you out.’

I smile spitefully, remove his hand from my arm and ask, ‘Have you seen my bag?’

I hail a taxi and am lucky enough one stops. When it pulls up to the curb I see myself in the window’s reflection and almost laugh. I can see why my one-night stand stranger had me mistaken. The makeup. The hair. The dress. Oh, and those heels! I guess an animal print theme for a hen’s night can leave a lot of room for speculation.

I’m dropped to my driveway and as I walk to the front door I wonder what the taxi driver is thinking. Hmm, shame, shame, shame. An outer city suburban wife needing a ride home from an inner city apartment so early on a Sunday. What was she up to?

It’s not the having sex part that’s shameful. Not even the embarrassing lack of consent that was obviously not negotiated last night.

It’s the I’m still married part that I’m ashamed of.

I reach into my bag, pull out the house key and my stomach somersaults…my breath catches in my throat.

My phone!

I open the front door as quietly as I possibly can.

‘Hey! Need a hand?’ my husband Ethan calls from the kitchen.

‘No!’ I call back, entering the hallway and making a dash for the bathroom. We may be sleeping in separate rooms and doing quite separate things but I’m just not sure the both of us enduring my walk of shame was a part of the ‘let’s just take a break for a bit’ deal.

I slam the bathroom door behind me and lock it.

‘Was it a good night?’ he asks through the door.

‘Yes!’ I call out, rushing to turn the shower taps on and undress. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m out.’ Maybe.

I hop under the running water, embracing the warmth on my skin. Though no amount of showering could ever wash away the stench of guilt.

The clean feeling after the shower is short lived as I stare back at that horrible stranger in the mirror. You’re such a slutty mess.

There’s a knock at the door. ‘Hey?’ Ethan says.

‘Yeah?’

‘You lose your phone?’

I pause.

‘Sheridan?’

‘Hang on,’ I reply with slight panic. How am I going to explain everything? Lie? Tell the truth? I open the door and venture out into the hallway. I’m about to walk to our room when I hear Ethan speaking to another person.

I turn to apologise for my current state of nakedness under a towel and…

Another man’s voice…

It can’t be…

I stop in my tracks. Heart pounding my chest and heat rising within, I see my one-night stand stranger standing in the entryway, a mobile phone in hand.

My husband looks from the stranger to me and then to the phone. ‘He found your phone,’ my husband announces incredulously.

I struggle to speak and offer a drawn out, ‘Grrrreat.’

My one-night stand hands over the phone. ‘Sorry to bother you both.’

‘No worries.’ My husband shakes his hand. ‘That’s awesome you found the address and returned it. Not a lot of people would bother.’

I’m still in shock and unsure how to continue.

‘Were you at the same place last night?’ Ethan asks. I hear suspicion in his tone.

We answer at the same time.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ he says.

Oh boy.

Then it dawns on my husband. His smile fades from kind to menacing and all he can say is, ‘You might want to get your story straight before you lie to my face.’

He rushes past me in the hall and I try to grab his hand. He flings me away.

‘Wait!’ I shout my plea.

I can hear him in our room opening and closing cupboards and drawers.

‘It was one night! I don’t even know him. We were drunk. It was a mistake.’

I’m basically throwing every cheating excuse cliché at him to make him understand. But I think he gets it loud and clear: Sheridan is a disloyal whore.

I approach our bedroom doorway and my one-night stand is right behind me.

He is trying to say something over the top of my shrill voice as I’m trying to reconcile the last remaining scraps of my marriage.

‘Hang on,’ he is saying.

‘Babe, wait! Don’t go!’ I yell in tears. ‘It meant nothing.’

‘Wow.’ The guy behind me sounds hurt. ‘Just hang on a second.’

‘Will you shut up?!’ I turn around and shout in his face.

He shouts back, ‘If you’d let me explain!’

Both my husband and I stop. Suddenly aware that this complete outsider is now raising his voice.

‘Right…’ he says in a quieter voice. ‘If you’d let me explain then you can stop packing…’

Silence.

My one-night stand turns to me and begins, ‘I met you last night at the bar. You were what I thought was a nice woman, who was having a rough night.’

‘A prostitute,’ I correct him.

‘Yes, that too.’

My husband frowns as he listens.

‘You got really drunk and I felt bad for you and didn’t want to leave you alone, so I let you crash at mine.’

‘How can I believe this?’ My husband accuses, a bit of spit flying from his mouth.

‘Maybe you can’t,’ he replies. ‘But I know the truth. I’m a nurse. My job is to look after people. That’s what I do.’ He turns to me. ‘We did not sleep together. You seemed like a nice person, but…now I’m not so sure…’

At first it’s a raw slap to the face. I don’t know this guy and he doesn’t know me.

But then…I don’t think I was ever a nice person. I certainly don’t go around promoting myself as nice. What is a nice person anyway? A nice woman? Is it someone who says her pleases and thank yous? Someone who gushes and fawns over any man who shows the slightest interest? Their perception of what’s nice and what’s not isn’t my problem. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes — clearly. I’m still figuring my shit out. I’ve never claimed to be nice.

‘Thanks for looking after me. That seems like something a nice person would do. I guess I wouldn’t know anything about that.’ I tell this stranger. ‘You can leave now.’