The Night I Stopped Pretending with My Roommate

Camila and I had drunk more than we should have and left the bar with no desire to stay. No worthwhile guy had shown up: just bland men, far too full of themselves, who came over with tired lines and left just as fast. So we paid the tab and walked back to the apartment we’d shared for almost a year.

We lit a cigarette on the balcony, poured ourselves a couple more drinks, and started laughing about the night we’d wasted. About the boring men, about the desire we’d been left with, about how easy it was to ruin a promising night out.

—Maybe we’re too demanding —Camila said, sinking into the couch—. We should settle for anyone.

—We should call the first guy who passes by on the street and have him keep us both company —I replied, half serious, half joking.

We both burst out laughing. I’d said it as a joke, but Camila got up, pulled the curtain aside, and opened the window wide. She leaned out over the empty street and, with a mischievous smile, announced:

—Here comes one now.

She began moving slowly, inching her dress up centimeter by centimeter, tracing a slow dance against the glass. I watched her from the couch, unable to believe what she was doing.

—You’re crazy —I told her, laughing.

—Come here —she replied,伸?