As soon as Melanie heard the Bruno Mars song coming from her phone, she knew immediately who was on the other end of the line.
“Vincenzo!”
“Happy Birthday, my love! I hope you don't have plans, I have a special night planned for you,” I respond when I hear her voice.
“Well... I did have plans. But since it's you asking, I think I can reschedule,” She retorts teasingly.
“Good. Be at my place at 8. Don't be late. You know I how much I hate waiting. Oh! And wear something nice.”
“Okay, Handsome. See you then. Love you!”
My name is actually Vincent, but she liked to bust my balls because of my unhealthy obsession with mob movies, and the fact that I'm proudly Italian American. Like Ray Liotta said in Goodfellas, “...all I ever wanted was to be a gangster.”
Melanie and I have been best friends since she asked to sit next to me on the bus during a seventh grade field trip. We were inseparable throughout high school. Where she went; I went. Where I went; she went. Movies, bike rides, parties, it didn't matter, we were together. It got to the point that even our close friends would ask if we were dating. One time, walking down the halls of our school, some random person just yelled out to us, “You two should fuck!”
And yet, we never did. We never dated, we never kissed, we never held hands. We just had a special bond.
Truthfully, I never understood it, either. She was what I'd call a “dime.” She stood at about 5'5”, had long golden hair that fell to the middle of her back, bright blue eyes that not even the clearest Caribbean waters could compare to, perky 36 B breasts, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. And there I was next to her. 5'7”, brown hair slicked back to the point of being a helmet, brown eyes, faint facial hair, and overweight.
After high school, we kept in touch. With every passing year, she got more beautiful. I had a couple of growth spurts, but my hair decided to migrate from the top of my head to my chin. I hadn't exactly lost weight, either. Luckily, she never seemed to care.
Some years after high school, when we were both in our mid-twenties, we went out together on a Friday night to sing karaoke at our local watering hole. The bar was on fire that night, and the two of us were singing like we were meant to be onstage. After many beers, and god knows how many shots, the KJ was shutting down, but being the loyal fans that we were, he allowed us to have the last two songs of the night. I closed with “I'm Yours” by Jason Mraz. The entire bar was clapping, and singing along, but my eyes locked onto hers. Our bond evolved that night. I took her back to my apartment, and to this day, I have never had the mind-blowing orgasms I had that night.
They say sex changes things. But not for us. We were still best friends, but now there was nothing we hadn't done together, and nothing we wouldn't do together. We weren't a couple, but we were meant for each other. All of our sexual “firsts” we did together.
The anticipation was killing me. I couldn't wait to see her. I glanced down at my watch for what felt like the hundredth time, “7:59”.
“God damn it,” I muttered to myself under my breath. “I knew she was gonna be late.”
Then the door bell rang. I looked down again, “8:00”.
“Of course...”
I answered the door wearing a tailored shark-skin suit, a forest green shirt, and a silk tie. When I saw Melanie, I felt under dressed. There she stood, her golden hair shining so brightly, I can only describe it as empyreal. She had obviously just had it done. It was usually straight, but today, it bounced off her shoulders in perfect waves. She had dark eye-liner that simultaneously made her look sultry, and caused her eyes to stand out more than they usually did. Her lips were a bright red that instantly caused me to get aroused. Her dress was a shimmering black spaghetti strap that contrasted with her creamy skin, and hugged every curve, and she wore a matching pair of four-inch heels. On her ears hung perfectly white pearls, and around her neck, into her cleavage was the companion necklace.
“Ah, Madonna!” I exclaimed.
“Hey, handsome,” she greeted me, her perfect smile tying the entire outfit together. “So tell me more about this special night.”
“Can't do that. It's a surprise.”
I took her by the hand, led her to the couch, and proceeded to the kitchen to make her favorite cocktail, Jack and Cherry Coke. I gave her the drink, and glanced again at my watch. Plenty of time.
We made small talk of the typical “How's work? How's the family?” variety as she finished her drink. One more glance at my watch showed that it was 8:30.
“Time to go,” I stated, matter-of-factly, as I walked to the door and opened it for her.
As she came to the door way, she gasped in shock as she saw the stretch limo, and the chauffeur holding the car door open.
“Just for you, Beautiful.”
I led her to the open door, and smirked as I watched the chauffeur give Melanie the “once over,” then slid in after her. We made more small talk and had another cocktail before the limo pulled up in front of La Vigna, her favorite restaurant.
“Oh my God, Vincenzo, you didn't have to do this!”
“I'd do anything for you.”
As we walked in the restaurant, all eyes were on her. Nobody, man or woman, could touch her radiance that night. We spent hours at our table drinking wine, eating, bantering about our lives, and reminiscing about old times. The meal came to an end, both of us not quite sober, and I escorted her back to the limo, and we rode around New York City before heading back to my apartment, putting down a few more cocktails along the way. We exited the limo, I tipped the driver, and gave him a nod.