On the Verge Read Online Free

right there and I’m hoping to expedite this awful goodbye.
    “What an extraordinary night. We’ll have to do this again.” I offer him my hand, but then he is passionately kissing me against the cab and it’s not a bad kiss.
    Now, maybe it was the sake or the way he’s rotating his pelvis into mine in the middle of East Eleventh Street, but I’m not exactly proud of what happens next.
    “Well?” asks Tabitha first thing in the morning over the phone. I am so hungover. The freshly squeezed six-dollar orange juice and toast isn’t doing a thing for my head.
    “Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the Gap is open at nine.”
    “Oh, how scandalous and low down! Was it great? How big?”
    “No, awful, well, not awful in the satisfying of mutual desires way, but awful in the how desperate I am and what lengths I will go to merely get laid.”
    “So tell me everything—actually skip the sushi and start with the sex.” Sometimes Tabitha’s alliterations are on par with my own. I make a mental note.
    “Well, made out the entire cab ride back to his place. The driver’s name was Numbi, very discreet, I would have liked to speak to him, but—”
    “Eve. Please.”
    “So we got back to his place—”
    “Where?”
    “Meat-packing district/West Village, pretty cool apartment. Roommate who he lovingly calls a ‘bitch’ away on business.”
    “Convenient. Are there two bedrooms?”
    “Yes. That was the first thing I checked.”
    “Thatta girl. So then he took off your clothes?”
    “No, then I had to pee. All the sake. Anyway, I do my thing.”
    “Some stuff can be spared.”
    “Right, and when I come out the lights are dim and he’s got what I assume is the thirty-disk changer going with some R&B ‘make love to your woman’ music and he’s lying on the couch in his Calvin Klein briefs, well, you know the boxer brief things, and Mr. Pokey is struggling to get free.”
    “Wow! The bod?”
    “Well, let’s just say he should have gotten the wax.”
    “No!” She practically shrieks into the phone. “How bad?”
    “Shoulder hair.”
    “Mother of God.” She is really excited now. “You are lying!”
    “This is a story I could not make up, and you should take it down a notch before the Big C talks to you about volume control.”
    “Shit, you’re right. She just scowled at me—doesn’t do much for her crow’s feet. I’ll call you back in two. Must smooth this over. Don’t go away. I gotta hear the rest.”
    She hangs up on me.
    Two minutes turns into three hours and finally I get up to go to the bathroom. I run into the big boss, my boss, on the way back to my desk. Herb Reynolds, the man who handles all the editorial work for the magazine. He has the smug look of a man who has never had to work too hard for anything. A man who believes in the integrity of his writing and honestly believes his “work” (that is, detailing his struggles to find independence on the open road, just a man and his bike, the importance of physical activity for the American Spirit, et cetera) is somehow furthering American journalism. I find Herb a tad ridiculous and intimidating at the same time, but he’s a good contact to have.
    If I even entertain the idea of him publishing my reformed biker doctor story (it sounds like a B-movie, doesn’t it?) or anything else, I’ll have to kiss his ass more than I do already. I am supposed to be his assistant, but he has a corner office on the other end of the floor. Our phones aren’t even connected. My only true contact with him is when I make his travel plans or when I need to get someone’s expense report signed.
    “Hello, Eve,” he says with his usual pompous smile. “I was meaning to stop by.”
    “You were?” Did someone finally tell him that he has an amazingly gifted writer whose talents are being virtually wasted in a thankless position? Finally, on the verge of my big break. A testament that a little sex puts the world in a whole new