October 16th 2010 7:20pm - Little Boy vs Man

Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning. Boyfriend and I drank a bottle of rum between nine at night and one thirty in the morning. By two, I was tired and drunk and laying spread-eagle on my bed. I wanted to sleep. Boyfriend wanted to go out. I fell asleep for two minutes. Boyfriend woke me up.
"Baby, your snoring sounds like you're cutting down a forest with a chainsaw," he said. "Let's go out."
I knew it was a bad idea, but I was drunk and accommodating. We called a cab. It was two in the morning. New Zealand taxi drivers don't wait out front for you for a few minutes. They don't call your cell phone to inform you that they've arrived. New Zealand cabbies ring the house bell incessantly until someone answers. When Boyfriend and I walked from my pool house, past the main house and to the street for the taxi driver, the mom of the kids I looked after was standing on the balcony of the main house. Waiting for us.
"Your cab driver's been ringing the bell for two whole minutes," she screamed like she was addressing a child rapist. The woman has five kids.
"Oh my God, I'm so so so sorry," I replied.
"It is not okay," she yelled back at me, before slamming the balcony door to her bedroom.
I was shithoused and I shrugged.
Boyfriend and I went to Provedor. We stumbled out three and a half hours later, at five-thirty in the morning. We went to Provedor because it was the bar where we met. He thought it would be romantic. I have since learned that all Aucklanders refer to that bar as Provide-a-Whore. Romantic.
It was a Saturday night, and/or Sunday morning, but regardless, Boyfriend spent the night. The three-year-old woke us up. The pool house is my pool house. Little children that I babysit for were not allowed in my domain. Boyfriend and I woke up to find the three-year-old staring at us.
"Hey Baby, what's going on?" my still-intoxicated self asked the three-year-old.
"You're naked," he responded. The kid's a genius.
"Ah, shit," I said, and regained enough consciousness to observe our situation. Boyfriend and I might as well have been nudists. We were naked and sleeping on my mattress. But my mattress wasn't on the bed stand. It was on the carpet.
I told the three-year-old the location of my chocolate stash downstairs, and without hesitation, fell into a semi-coma sleep.
Hours later, when I aroused myself enough to speak coherently and face daylight, I walked into the backyard. The first person I saw was the three-year-old.
He looked at me and asked, "Is Chris your friend still naked in your bed?"

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