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Whenever people sit across from me, blubbing into a packet of Kleenex while going on about how it’s over, how can it be over, I’m the man with a pitcher of ice cold drinking water and a detailed list of why they should be fucking glad it’s over. He cheated on you. She’s looking to take full custody and half your annual salary. Why would you want to put yourself through this hell one more day? Calm, orderly thoughts lead to calm, orderly lives. No surprises means no surprising fuck-ups.
In conclusion: Fuck Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Vegas in its glittery ass.
“Save it. I’ve had all the drama I need today,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Now buy me chocolate because I want it and because I make you a lot of money.”
“I kind of left the door open, and he politely closed it and then shouted no thanks through it. Like I said, I can’t blame him.”
Maybe he thought he’d ask you on a date and that you’d turn him down. Nothing makes their testicles retreat into their bodies more than a woman giving them a pitying look and saying no. Weak little shits.”
“I, Mike, take you, Stacy, to be my partner in all things. I promise constant arguments followed by ecstatic make-ups. I promise to let you sleep in every other day when I make breakfast, but I’m expecting French toast on Tuesday and Thursday.”
Nate’s place is very modern alpha businessman sparse, with high end walnut furniture, soft sconce lighting, and sleek black couches.
Everyone goes to Vegas hoping they’ll get lucky. More often than not, they go home disappointed. Sometimes, though, just sometimes, you get lucky beyond your wildest dreams.
