Camilla

The only thing more awkward than crashing on your ex’s couch is crashing on your ex’s couch and then she brings a date home.

Well, date would be generous. Hook-up, definitely. I can hear them laughing gently through the wall, so it’s not a hate fuck at least. Gretchen likes hate fucks. That’s how we met.

She heckled me from the crowd, I called her on that bullshit move after I was done, and my hands were down her pants in the hallway in the back of the comedy club twenty minutes later.

We didn’t last long. I’m a monogamous type of girl, and she’s very much not. So we dated for a few weeks, until she broke up with me and declared me her best friend in the same conversation.

I resisted that label at first. Seriously, it’s fucked up, right?

But on the other hand, Gretchen has a way about her. She doesn’t take no for an answer, for one thing, and for another, she has a sweet apartment in the city, with a full bedroom for herself and a living room.

With a couch.

Which came in quite handy when I lost my apartment to a fire—as brutal as it sounds, and I’m still reeling—and I was planning on leaving the city when my temporary teaching contract ends, so signing a new lease sounded like a bad idea.

In hindsight, taking Gretchen’s couch wasn’t the brightest plan, either, as I don’t really have the right to ask for roommate consideration. Like… don’t bring hot chicks back and bang them when I’m still hung up on your gorgeous tits and skilled mouth? No?

The laughter on the other side of the wall swells again, and fuck it. I’m going out.

You have to work in nine hours.

Yeah, yeah. Sleep is for the weak.

And if I’m lucky, I can talk my way into a five-minute spot at one of the late-night comedy clubs.

I slam the apartment door behind me.

I’m in luck. When I slide into the back room at Gigglesnort, someone is puking in the alley.

I give the scheduler my best attempt at a sympathetic look. “Rough night?”

She laughs. “You know you’re in luck. You can have a five-minute slot at eleven.”

Of course I grin. I’m not going to hide that I’m thrilled. “Thanks. I’m going out front to watch the others, but I’ll stay sober.”

She scowls at the propped-open door to the alley. “You better.”

The crowd is a decent size tonight. I need to wait a few minutes to get a drink—soda water with lemon, and not just because I want to be clear headed for my set. It’s also a school night, and the last thing I want to do is spend tomorrow fighting a hangover while I battle the constant fight of tenth-graders hating math.

I play this game with myself before a set. I try to figure out where the crowd is from. I usually start my set with a bit of commentary on 2017, to take a read on the room, but I like to have a gut feel before that.

It’s New York City, which voted against the current president at practically the highest rate in the land, but there could always be tourists in the crowd, and who knows how that can go. Dance for us, funny lesbian girl. Just don’t offend us.

I’ve got two routines I’m working right now. They start the same way, and they’re both…good. Routine A pulls the punches slightly. It’s safer for a mixed political audience.

It’s not nearly as funny, though.

But ironically, Routine B usually slays the best when it hurts someone in the crowd, if everyone else thinks it’s funny.

Bring on the pain. It’s hilarious when your buddy falls on his ass. Fine line to walk, because while comedy is both painful and real, you don’t want it to actually slice too deep. That’s when the laughs start and the awkward silences stretch forever—and then there’s no booking, no invitation to audition for a producer.

Tonight seems like a pretty local crowd, though. Lots of straight couples, which is good for my girlfriend jokes. Thursday night is date night. I’m glad I came out for it.

From the other side of the bar, a woman catches my eye. It’s too soon, I tell myself, and she’s not my type. Too polished.

Which is a lie, because I love the curve of her mouth, slick with lipstick, and the shiny wave of her hair.

What I mean when I say she’s not my type is that she’s out of my league.

I don’t want to want her.

But I stare long enough for her to feel the weird prickle of my gaze. She turns and catches my eye, and when she smiles, my chest heats up.

Those lips are something else.

She doesn’t look at me for long. Her attention slides back to the stage and I watch her laugh. Her smile’s even better in profile.

I take my drink and head backstage. There’s one more set, then it’s my turn. My bio is weak, so I have this weird routine that I do while the MC is introducing me. In my head, as loud as I can mind-shout, I imagine the MC is actually saying, “And up next, fresh back from Los Angeles where she appeared on Ellen and Jimmy Kimmel, Hoboken’s own Camilla Thomas!”

I’m a decade away from being in the same room as Ellen, let alone appearing on her show, but a girl can dream, right?

Jogging onto stage, I adjust my glasses, then adjust the mic before I plant my feet wide and shove my hands in my pockets and deliver my test balloon line. “Okay, so…wow, 2017, this has been some year, huh?”

All I hear are groans and sighs, so I think it’s pretty safe to do Routine B.

“I made a lot of life changes this year. Some by choice. Others were thrust upon me. I realized I couldn’t afford health insurance unless I went back to work at a regular job, for example. So I did the mature, responsible thing and started drinking heavily.”

That gets the laugh I was hoping for, although the first one is tenuous. You gotta follow it up with something good.

“Just kidding. I prefer to drown my sorrows in potato chips and naked women.” I point at a guy in the audience getting ribbed by his friends. “You know what I mean, don’t you, sir?”

I work through a few more jokes about working full-time and trying to be a comic, then I loop back to naked ladies. “I’ve accidentally made a habit of being the girl who dates women who usually date men. And that’s kind of a weird thing to happen more than once, you know? Like what does that say about my sub-conscious? Hey, self, you may not impress someone with real standards. Better stick to straight girls.”

That sometimes gets big laughs, but tonight, only a few titters. Damn. I take a deep breath and smile. “So obviously, that says more about my self-esteem issues than anything about straight girls. Or men. Although, let’s be real…right now some of you dudes are shifting uncomfortably in your seats.”

More giggles. Some poking of dates.

My grin feels more real.

“But seriously, I’m just getting over a bad break-up myself. And I’m sleeping on her couch, too.”

Groans. Those feel good, though, because they’re on my side now.

“Right? It’s highly embarrassing. I’m like a lost puppy she rescued, but decided to give away instead of keeping. I’m a few sympathetic head rubs away from her setting me up on blind dates.” Wait a beat. “With other stray pets she’s collected.”

More groans, some laughs.

I stop mid-stage and prop my hands on my hips, giving the spotlight a rueful smile. “I know. It’s embarrassing, really. You’ve been there, though, right? Dated someone for a few weeks, it didn’t work out, but she made the best vegan veggie dip…” Giggles. “And had the best Indigo Girls vinyl collection…” More giggles. “And her flannel shirt collection. Unf, am I right?”

I hold my hand up for an imaginary high-five.

“You’ve been great. I’m Camilla, and I’m totally looking to steal your girl.”

The round of applause and cheers is pretty solid, and I’m pumped as I jog off-stage. I thank the scheduler for fitting me in, then I head to the bar for another soda—and maybe, hopefully, another glance at the out-of-my-league chick.

I get more than a glance.

She’s waiting for me at the bar, and doesn’t make any attempt to hide it. She watches me approach and wiggles her fingers in a wave that gets my blood pumping.

“Hey,” I say as I reach her.

“I’m Elizabeth.”

“Camilla.” I point to the stage. “But hopefully you already know that.”

“Does that ever work?”

“What?”

“The steal your girl line. Do you ever go home with someone’s date?”

I shake my head. “It’s not meant to work like that. It’s supposed to be a memorable call-back to the point of my set, but if I have to explain that, it probably didn’t do its job.”

“It did,” she murmurs. “But it also worked in other ways. Like…I want to take you home kind of ways.”

“Do you have a boyfriend I’d be stealing you from?”

“Nope.” She fixes her clear, blue gaze on me. “Well, in the interest of full disclosure because I’d like to buy you a drink—I have a husband, sort of. That bit of your routine was disturbingly accurate, but I’m working on my standards. Hence being very much, very permanently separated. Ex-husband. I need to get in the habit of leading with the ex part.”

“A husband.”

Her lips twitch. “Yes. It’s a long, complicated story, and very much not the point of what I want to do tonight.”

“Which is…?”

“You. Preferably over and over again until dawn.”

“You’re definitely separated?”

“Officially single.”

Maybe I don’t need to listen to Gretchen getting lucky tonight after all. “Then let’s get out of here.”