Share
MidReal Story
THREESOME
Scenario:this is in the year of 2021 in new york city a story about love and friendship and work and age difference and relationship and sex and nudity and cheating and lying and betrayal and depression and parties and drug use and alcohol use and my name is mohamed abdi and i have dark skin and i am 20 years old and my girlfriend monica hoang is 21 years old and asian and my best friend patrick andersen wears glasses and he is 21 years old and he has blonde hair and my job is a bartender and monicas job is a sales woman and patricks job is also a bartender and me and monica lives together in a apartment building in brooklyn and patrick lives in a apartment building in manhattan and we are all from our high school and middle school in aarhus denmark
Create my version of this story
Mohamed Abdi
He is a 20yearold bartender in New York City. He is adventurous, optimistic, and introspective. Mohamed moved to New York to pursue a dream career in mixology, joining his friend Patrick Anderssen. He shares a close bond with his best friend and lives with his girlfriend Monica Hoang. Mohamed struggles with the challenges of a new city while maintaining relationships. He reflects on his past in Denmark, where he grew up with a sense of belonging.
Monica Hoang
She is a 21yearold saleswoman in New York City, originally from Aarhus, Denmark like Mohamed. She is vibrant, caring, and sociable. Monica dates Mohamed and lives with him in Brooklyn, maintaining close ties with her high school friends. She often hosts parties at her apartment, which brings the group together. Despite her young age, Monica handles adult responsibilities and navigates the city life with her boyfriend.
Patrick Anderssen
He is a 21yearold bartender in New York City, originally from Aarhus, Denmark like Mohamed. He is witty, loyal, and laidback. Patrick works at the same bar as Mohamed and they have been friends since high school. He has been dating Sarah for over a year and lives in an apartment in Manhattan. Patrick is known for wearing glasses and has a playful sense of humor. He supports Mohamed through his transition to New York life.
It was the year 2021 and I was living in New York City.
I was 20 years old, dark-skinned, and had just turned 20 in June.
I was living with my girlfriend Monica Hoang, who was one year older than me.
She was also from Aarhus, Denmark, just like me.
We had just moved into an apartment in Brooklyn and were unpacking boxes.
Monica was putting away dishes in the kitchen while I was setting up the living room.
I was putting together the couch and coffee table, while Monica was unpacking the TV and computer.
"Hey, Mohamed," Monica said, coming into the living room with a box in her hands.
"Where do you want me to put this?"
She held up a photo of the two of us from our high school graduation.
"Um, how about over there?" I pointed to a spot on the wall above the couch.
Monica nodded and set down the box.
She took out a hammer and nail and hung the photo on the wall.
I stepped back to admire it.
It was a good photo of us, taken on our graduation day in Aarhus.
We had been together for five years now, since we were 15.
We had met at school and had been inseparable ever since.
I remembered our first date like it was yesterday.
We had gone to a movie together and then gotten some ice cream.
I had been so nervous that night, but Monica had made me feel at ease. We had talked for hours about everything and nothing, and I knew right then that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
And now here we were, living together in New York City.
It was a dream come true for both of us.
We finished unpacking and decided to go visit our friend Patrick.
He was from Aarhus too, and had moved to New York a few months before us.
He was living in Manhattan, so we took the subway to his place.
Monica and I sat together on the subway, holding hands and talking in Danish.
We talked about our new apartment and how excited we were to start our lives here in New York.
When we arrived at Patrick's place, he was getting ready to go out for the night.
"Hey guys," he said, opening the door for us.
"What's up?"
"Not much," I replied.
"We just wanted to come check out your place."
Patrick nodded and let us in.
His apartment was small but nice, with a big window that looked out over the city.
"Wow," Monica said, looking out the window.
"This is amazing."
Patrick smiled proudly.
"Yeah, it's pretty great."
We hung out at Patrick's place for a while, talking and laughing together.
Then we decided to go out for a drink. We went to a bar down the street from Patrick's place.
It was a small bar with a few tables and chairs scattered around the room.
There was a bar along one wall, with stools lined up in front of it.
The bartender was a friendly-looking man with a thick beard and a smile on his face.
"Hey there," he said as we walked in.
"What can I get you?"
"Just three beers please," Patrick replied.
The bartender nodded and went to get our drinks.
We sat down at one of the tables and waited for him to bring them over.
When he returned with our beers, we thanked him and took a sip each.
"Monica let out a contented sigh, savoring the crisp, refreshing taste of her beer as she placed it back on the table with a satisfied grin."
I nodded in agreement and took another sip of my own beer. We talked and laughed together for a while, enjoying our drinks and each other's company.
Then Monica got up to dance to the music playing in the background.
Patrick joined her soon after, leaving me sitting alone at the table sipping my beer.
I watched them dance together for a while before getting up to join them myself.
Monica smiled when she saw me coming over, and she reached out to grab my hand as I approached her.
"Come on," she said, pulling me onto the dance floor with her and Patrick.
As we danced together, surrounded by the vibrant energy of the city, I realized this was just the beginning of our new adventure.
After a week at her new sales job, Monica invited me to meet her coworkers at a rooftop bar in Manhattan.
We arrived at the bar and were greeted by two women who introduced themselves as Anna and Simone.
They were both dressed in pencil skirts and blazers, and they looked like they had just come from work.
"Hi, I'm Monica," my girlfriend said, shaking their hands.
"And this is my boyfriend Mohamed."
"Nice to meet you," Anna replied, smiling warmly at us.
"Come on, let's get some drinks."
We followed them over to the bar and ordered a round of tequila shots.
As we sipped our drinks, Anna and Simone told us about their jobs at the company where Monica worked.
They were both sales representatives, just like her, but they had been there longer and seemed more confident in their roles.
"So, what do you do?" Simone asked me, turning her attention to me after a while. "I'm still looking for a job," I admitted sheepishly.
"I've been applying to a few places, but nothing has come through yet."
"Well, good luck with that," Anna said kindly.
"You'll find something soon, I'm sure."
Just then, another man joined our group and introduced himself as Oliver.
He was wearing an expensive-looking suit and carrying a briefcase in his hand.
"Sorry I'm late," he said apologetically.
"I got held up at work."
"No worries," Monica replied with a smile.
"We just got here ourselves."
Oliver nodded and took a seat next to Monica at the bar.
As we continued drinking and talking together, I couldn't help but notice how friendly Oliver was being towards Monica.
He kept complimenting her on her sales numbers and asking her questions about her job. By midnight, we were all stumbling drunk and decided it was time to head home.
Monica hugged her coworkers goodbye and thanked them for inviting us out tonight.
As we made our way back to Brooklyn on the subway, I could feel the alcohol coursing through my veins.
I leaned against Monica's shoulder as she held onto the pole for support.
When we finally arrived at our apartment building, I fumbled with the keys trying to unlock the front door.
Monica giggled beside me as I struggled to get them into the keyhole.
Finally, after what felt like forever, I managed to open the door and we stumbled inside together. We made our way down the hallway towards our apartment, bumping into walls along the way.
When we reached our door, I fumbled with the keys again before finally getting them into the lock.
We stumbled inside and collapsed onto the couch together, laughing and kissing each other.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of sunlight streaming through the blinds in our bedroom window.
I rolled over and saw Monica lying next to me, still fast asleep.
I smiled to myself as I watched her sleep peacefully, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
After a while, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen to make some coffee.
Monica joined me a few minutes later, rubbing her eyes sleepily as she sat down at the table across from me.
"Good morning," she said softly, reaching out to touch my hand.
"Morning," I replied with a smile, pouring her a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter.
We sat there drinking our coffee and talking about our plans for the day.
Monica had to go back to work at her sales job, but I was still looking for something.
"I might go down to the docks and see if anyone needs any help," I said casually, taking a sip of my own coffee. "That sounds like a good idea," Monica agreed, nodding thoughtfully as she took another sip of her drink.
As we finished up our coffee, Monica's phone buzzed on the table next to us.
She glanced down at it quickly before picking it up and reading through a message that had just come in.
"It's Anna," she said after a moment, looking back up at me with a smile on her face.
"She wants to know if we want to meet up later tonight."
"That sounds fun," I said enthusiastically, setting my cup down on the table in front of me.
"Let's do it."
Monica nodded and typed out a quick response before putting her phone back down on the table.
"Great," she said happily, reaching out to take my hand again.
"I'll see you tonight then."
We finished our coffee and then walked hand-in-hand back to our apartment so Monica could get ready for work.
As we walked through the streets of Brooklyn together, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this life we were building here in New York City. After walking Monica back home from work that evening, we decided to grab some dinner at a new café that had just opened up in our neighborhood.
I sat across from Patrick at a diner near his bar in Manhattan, nervously adjusting my collar before the interview.
He was flipping through my mixology resume, nodding along as he read.
"Okay, so you've got some experience with signature cocktails," he said, pointing to a section of the page.
"Can you tell me about those?"
I nodded eagerly, launching into a description of the drinks I had created at my last job.
Patrick listened intently, his eyes lighting up as I spoke.
"Wow, those sound amazing," he said when I finished.
"I think we could definitely use someone with your skills."
He stood up and gestured for me to follow him.
"Let's go meet my boss," he said.
I followed him out of the diner and down the street to a large building with a sign that read "The Manhattan Bar."
We walked inside and were greeted by a hostess who showed us to a table in the back.
A few minutes later, a man in a suit came over and introduced himself as Mr. Chen, the owner of the bar.
Patrick explained that I was there for an interview and Mr. Chen nodded politely.
"Great," he said.
"Let's get started then."
He led us over to the bar where he introduced me to the bartender, a friendly-looking woman named Sarah. "Can you make us three drinks?" he asked me.
I nodded and got to work, mixing together ingredients for a classic Manhattan, a smoky mezcal cocktail, and an original drink I had created called the "Danish Dream."
When I finished, Mr. Chen tasted each one and nodded approvingly.
"These are excellent," he said.
"Do you have any questions for me?"
I shook my head, feeling confident about my chances of getting the job.
Mr. Chen smiled and extended his hand.
"Welcome aboard," he said.
Patrick grinned next to me as we shook hands with Mr. Chen.
As we left the bar, Patrick turned to me with a knowing smile.
"Looks like you're going to be working with us soon," he said, clapping me on the back.
"Just wait until Monica hears about this; she's going to be so proud."
After getting hired, Mr. Chen led me to a cramped office behind the bar's storage room.
He pulled out a stack of paperwork from a metal filing cabinet and began explaining the details of my new job.
The contract included a $2,000 signing bonus, as well as the option to choose between morning or evening shifts.
I mentioned that my girlfriend Monica worked during the day and asked if I could work evenings instead.
Mr. Chen nodded and made a note on the contract before handing it to me to sign.
As I scribbled my name across the bottom of the page, Patrick knocked on the door and poked his head inside.
"Hey boss, can I come in?"
Mr. Chen waved him in and Patrick entered carrying three shot glasses filled with amber liquid.
"I figured we should celebrate Mohamed's new job with a toast," he said, handing me one of the glasses.
The shot glass feels cool against my palm as we raise our drinks in unison.
Mr. Chen's expensive whiskey catches the dim lighting of the office, casting a warm glow over the room.
Patrick grins at me from behind his glasses, while Mr. Chen's weathered face breaks into a genuine smile.
We clink our glasses together and take a sip, the strong liquor burning pleasantly down my throat.
I set the empty glass on Mr. Chen's polished desk next to my signed contract.
Patrick claps me on the shoulder and Mr. Chen hands me my official Manhattan Bar uniform - a crisp black apron with the bar's logo embroidered in gold thread.
I stand behind the bar wearing my new black apron, nervously adjusting the straps as I wait for my first customer.
Patrick shows me how to use the register system and introduces me to some of the regulars.
As the night wears on, I start to feel more confident mixing drinks and chatting with the patrons.
One customer asks for a Danish Dream, and after I make it for him, word starts to spread and soon everyone is ordering one.
By closing time, my apron pockets are stuffed with cash and I'm exhausted but exhilarated from a successful first night.
I count my tips in the back room with Patrick, who can't believe how much money we made.
I carefully fold my new apron and place it in my locker before heading home. The night is a blur of shaking cocktails and pouring shots, as I try to keep up with the demanding pace of the bar.
A group of rowdy Wall Street traders comes in and orders round after round of expensive drinks, leaving hundred-dollar tips each time.
By the end of the night, my pockets are bulging with cash and I'm exhausted from all the work.
As I count my tips in the back room with Patrick, he looks at me in amazement.
I notice Monica pulling away from me over the next few months.
She becomes cold and unaffectionate, often texting someone secretly when she thinks I'm not looking.
She claims to be hanging out with coworkers after work, but I can't shake the feeling that something is off.
One evening, I confront her about my suspicions.
"Monica, I know what's going on," I say, my voice shaking with emotion.
"I know you're cheating on me."
Monica looks at me in shock, her eyes widening as she tries to process what I just said.
"Mohamed, how could you think that?"
She asks, her voice trembling.
"I would never cheat on you. You're the love of my life."
I look at her skeptically, unsure if I believe her words.
We sit in our small Brooklyn apartment, the tension between us palpable as we stare at each other in silence.
Finally, I decide to trust her words and let the matter drop.
But as the weeks go by, the nagging doubt refuses to leave me.
In our Brooklyn bedroom, I grab Monica's phone while she's in the shower.
I know her password, and as soon as I unlock the screen, I start scrolling through her messages.
My heart sinks as I see flirty texts exchanged with a number I don't recognize.
I keep scrolling until I come across a series of nudes sent between Monica and the mystery number.
The images are explicit and intimate, leaving no doubt in my mind that Monica has been cheating on me.
I feel a wave of anger and betrayal wash over me as I realize that my suspicions were correct all along.
I wait for Monica to get out of the shower before confronting her about what I found on her phone.
She walks into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet from the shower.
As soon as she sees me standing there with her phone in my hand, she knows something is wrong. "Mohamed, what's going on?"
She asks nervously, her voice shaking slightly.
"I can't believe you would do this to me," I say, holding up her phone for her to see.
"Who is this guy? How long have you been cheating on me?"
Monica looks at me in shock, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Mohamed, please listen to me," she says, taking a step towards me.
"I can explain everything."
I shake my head angrily, not wanting to hear her excuses.
"No, Monica. There's nothing to explain. You promised me that you wouldn't cheat again."
Monica sighs deeply and sits down on the bed next to me.
"I know I promised you that," she says softly.
"But things have been so stressful lately. I needed someone to talk to."
I look at her skeptically, unsure if I believe her story.
"So you decided to cheat on me?"
I ask bitterly. Monica shakes her head vigorously.
"No, Mohamed. That's not what happened. This guy is just a friend. We met at Patrick's party last month."
I remember Patrick's party and how Monica had flirted shamelessly with one of his friends.
Could it be him?
"Who is he?"
I demand angrily.
"What's his name?"
Monica hesitates for a moment before answering me.
"His name is Oliver," she says quietly.
"He works at a bank in Manhattan."
I nod silently, trying to process everything that's happening.
As we lay in bed that night, I can't shake the feeling of betrayal that lingers inside me.
I sit in my car outside Oliver's Manhattan office building during lunch hour, gripping the steering wheel tightly until my knuckles turn white.
Through the glass doors, I watch as employees stream in and out, comparing each face to Oliver's Instagram profile photo on my phone.
After forty minutes, I finally spot him - tall and dressed in a blue suit, walking alone towards the corner deli.
My hands shake as I exit the car and follow him inside.
He orders a turkey sandwich and waits at the counter, completely unaware of my presence.
When he turns from the counter with his food, I step directly into his path, blocking his exit.
Standing in the deli, I watch as Oliver's face changes from confusion to recognition.
He looks down at the sandwich clutched in his hand and then back up at me.
"Monica's boyfriend," he says, taking a step back.
"I had no idea she wasn't single."
My throat tightens as I look at him, his words sinking in.
"How many times?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"How many times did you sleep with her?"
Oliver swallows hard, looking uncomfortable.
"Eight times," he admits, his voice shaking slightly.
"In your bed. In my apartment."
I feel a lump form in my throat as he continues to talk about their encounters.
"We kissed on the first date," he says, his words cutting through me like a knife.
"And then things escalated quickly. She was so beautiful and passionate. I couldn't resist her."
I listen silently as Oliver describes their intimate moments together, my eyes watering from the pain of his words.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, looking at me with regret in his eyes.
"I didn't know she was taken. I thought she was single." I cut him off mid-sentence, unable to bear hearing any more of his apologies.
"It doesn't matter anymore," I say, turning away from him and walking out of the deli.
I leave him standing there with his sandwich in hand and drive straight to our Brooklyn apartment.
I grab my duffel bag from the closet and start throwing clothes into it.
Monica enters the room, her eyes widening as she sees me packing.
"Mohamed, what are you doing?" she asks, panic lacing her voice.
"I'm leaving, Monica," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Monica follows me down the apartment hallway, tears streaming down her face as she grabs my arm.
"I know I did a horrible thing," she sobs, her voice shaking with remorse.
"But please, don't leave me."
I shake her off and continue stuffing clothes into my suitcase.
In the bathroom, I sweep my toothbrush and deodorant into a toiletry bag while Monica leans against the doorframe, pleading with me to stay.
I zip up my bags and push past her towards the front door.
Her final words echo in my ears as I slam the door behind me: "Please, I want you back."
Outside, rage boils over within me.
I punch a street sign, feeling my knuckles split open as blood drips down my hand.
I pull out my phone and call Patrick, who answers on the first ring.
"Patrick," I say, my voice strained with emotion.
"I need a place to stay."
Without hesitation, he offers his spare room in his Manhattan apartment.
I hang up and walk away, leaving behind the life I thought I knew.
I arrive at Patrick's apartment in Manhattan, dragging my duffel bag behind me.
He opens the door, his face etched with concern as he ushers me inside.
I drop my bag by the entrance and stumble towards the couch, sinking into its soft cushions.
Exhaustion washes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.
Patrick sits beside me, offering silent support as I stare blankly at the ceiling.
The room is quiet except for the distant hum of city traffic outside.
My mind replays Monica's betrayal on an endless loop, each painful memory cutting through me like a knife.
Patrick hands me a glass of water, which I accept with a nod.
I take a sip, then set it down on the coffee table in front of us.
Patrick breaks the silence, his voice gentle but probing.
"Do you think you'll ever forgive her?"
I shake my head slowly, feeling the weight of his question.
"I don't know if I can," I admit, my voice barely audible.
Patrick nods understandingly, his eyes filled with empathy.
"Take all the time you need," he says softly.
"You're welcome to stay here as long as you want."
I nod my gratitude, feeling a small sense of relief wash over me.
I glance down at my hand, which is still throbbing from the cut I got when I punched the street sign.
Patrick notices it too and frowns.
"You should get that looked at by a doctor," he suggests.
I shake my head dismissively, not wanting to deal with hospitals or medical bills right now.
"I'll be fine," I assure him, but Patrick insists.
"Come on, it's better to be safe than sorry," he says firmly.
I reluctantly agree, knowing he's right.
Patrick helps me up from the couch and leads me to the bathroom, where he cleans and bandages my hand carefully.
As he works, I can't help but feel grateful for his kindness and support during this difficult time.
When he finishes, I look down at my bandaged hand and nod in appreciation.
"Thanks," I say sincerely, feeling a small sense of comfort wash over me. Patrick smiles back at me and pats my shoulder reassuringly.
"You're welcome," he says warmly.
"Now get some rest. We can talk more in the morning."
I nod and make my way to the spare bedroom, where I collapse onto the bed exhausted.
As I drift off to sleep, I know that tomorrow will bring its own set of challenges and emotions, but for now, I just need to rest and try to heal.
The next morning, I wake up in Patrick's spare bedroom feeling groggy and disoriented.
My hand still throbs from the cut I got punching the street sign, but it's not as bad as it was last night.
I sit up slowly and look around the room, taking in my surroundings for the first time since arriving here yesterday evening.
The room is small but cozy, with a single bed against one wall and a dresser on the opposite side of the room.
I hear a soft knock on the door, and Patrick peeks his head in.
"Morning," he says, offering a tentative smile. "How are you feeling today?"
I rub my eyes and let out a sigh.
"Better, I guess," I reply, though I'm not entirely sure if it's true.
Patrick steps inside, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.
"I thought we could talk more about what happened," he suggests gently, handing me one of the mugs.
I take a sip of the coffee and nod, grateful for his support.
We sit down on the bed together, and Patrick asks me to tell him everything that happened with Monica.
I recount the events leading up to our breakup, trying to keep my emotions in check.
Patrick listens attentively, offering words of encouragement and support whenever I need it.
When I finish talking, he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "You deserve so much better than someone who would cheat on you like that."
I nod in agreement, feeling a small sense of validation wash over me.
Patrick stands up and says, "Come on, let's get out of here. We're going to go have some fun."
I raise an eyebrow at him curiously but follow him out of the room anyway.
We end up at a popular nightclub in Manhattan, surrounded by flashing lights and pulsating music.
Patrick knows the bouncer and we get in without waiting in line.
Inside, the club is packed with people dancing and laughing together.
The air is thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat. We make our way to the bar and order a round of shots.
As we drink, Patrick points out two girls standing across from us.
"See those girls?" he asks, nodding towards them.
"They're here for us tonight."
I look over at the girls curiously, wondering what he means by that.
They seem friendly enough, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to get involved with anyone right now.
Patrick notices my hesitation and nudges me playfully.
"Come on," he says with a grin.
"It'll be fun. You need to forget about Monica for a while."
I sigh and nod reluctantly, knowing he's probably right.
We make our way over to the girls and introduce ourselves.
They tell us their names are Emma and Lisa, and they seem nice enough.
We all start drinking together, laughing and joking around as we go. As the night wears on, things start getting wilder and wilder.
People are dancing on tables and g###g against each other on the dance floor.
The music is getting louder and more intense by the minute. Patrick pulls out a bag of p##s from his pocket and offers them to us.
"What are those?" one of the girls asks curiously. "Ecstasy," he replies matter-of-factly.
"Want some?"
The girls look at each other nervously before nodding in unison.
I hesitate for a moment but eventually agree too.
I swallow the pill and feel it start to take effect almost immediately.
The music seems to pulse through my veins like electricity, and the lights around me become even brighter and more vibrant.
Patrick and I dance with Emma and Lisa, our bodies moving together in perfect sync.
The strobe lights flash above us, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room.
As we dance, I feel a sense of freedom wash over me.
The pill is making everything feel more intense and alive, and I can't help but let go of all my worries and inhibitions. We continue dancing for hours, lost in the rhythm and energy of the music.
At one point, Patrick leans close to me and shouts over the noise, "See? This is what you needed. Now you can forget all about Monica."
I nod in agreement, trying to lose myself completely in the moment.
Eventually, the sun starts rising outside, casting a warm glow through the windows of the club.
The music slows down and people begin making their way towards the exits.
As we step outside into the early morning light, Patrick turns to me with a knowing smile.
"Feeling better now?" he asks, his voice slightly hoarse from shouting over the music all night.
I take a deep breath, the cool air sobering me up a bit, and reply, "Yeah, I think I needed this more than I realized."
I wake up in Patrick's spare bedroom, my head pounding from the aftereffects of the e###y.
My hand still throbs from the cut I got punching the street sign, but it's not as bad as it was before.
I try to sit up slowly, but a wave of dizziness washes over me and I fall back onto the bed.
Just then, there's a soft knock on the door and Emma peeks her head inside.
"Hey," she says softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of my own breathing.
I nod weakly at her, trying to muster up a smile.
She steps inside and closes the door behind her, revealing her tattoos that run down her arms under her tight-fitting shirt.
She walks over to me and sits down on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through my hair gently. "How are you feeling?" she asks, concern etched across her face.
I shrug slightly, not wanting to admit just how bad I'm feeling.
"I'll be fine," I say quietly, trying to reassure both myself and her.
She nods understandingly and leans in closer, pressing her lips against mine softly.
I return the kiss hesitantly at first, but soon we're m##g out passionately on the bed.
Our clothes come off piece by piece until we're both naked beneath the sheets.
We start having s#x, our bodies moving together in a rhythmic motion.
But as we continue, I start to struggle with maintaining an e###n.
It's like my body is betraying me in this moment of vulnerability. Emma notices my struggles and pulls away slightly, looking at me with confusion in her eyes.
"Is everything okay?" she asks softly, concern evident in her voice.
I nod sheepishly, feeling embarrassed by my inability to perform.
"It's just... I don't know," I admit honestly, unsure of how to explain what's happening inside me.
Emma smiles reassuringly at me and says, "Don't worry about it. It happens."
We lie there together for a while longer, holding each other tightly as if trying to find comfort in one another's presence.
Eventually, she gets dressed again and leaves without saying much else. The next morning, I wake up feeling a bit more refreshed than before.
But as I try to move my hand that got cut from punching the street sign, I realize that it's become even more swollen and painful overnight.
I know I can't keep ignoring it any longer.
I call Patrick from his spare bedroom and ask him if he can drive me to the hospital.
He agrees without hesitation and comes into the room a few minutes later, concern etched on his face.
"Are you okay?" he asks, looking at my hand with worry.
"I think I need to get this looked at," I reply, gesturing towards my injured hand.
Patrick nods in understanding and says, "Let's go."
We walk out to his car together, and I notice that my hand is even more swollen than it was before.
Patrick helps me into the passenger seat and starts the engine.
As we drive to the hospital, he tries to distract me by talking about our night at the club.
But all I can focus on is the increasing pain in my hand.
We arrive at the hospital and Patrick parks the car in a nearby lot.
As we walk towards the entrance, Patrick turns to me and says, "You know, Emma seemed really worried about you this morning."
I glance at him, surprised. "Did she say anything?"
"Yeah," he replies, opening the hospital door for me. "She said she thinks there's more going on with you than just a bad breakup."
I step inside the hospital waiting room and sit down in one of the chairs.
My hand is throbbing even more now, and I can't wait to get it looked at by a doctor.
I sit in the hospital waiting room, my hand throbbing from where I punched the street sign.
A woman sits next to me with her 10-year-old son.
She looks to be around 41 years old, with brown eyes and loose black hair that falls down her back.
Her son is playing with his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that we're in a hospital waiting room.
The woman glances over at me and notices that my hand is injured.
"Are you okay?" she asks, concern etched on her face.
"Yeah," I reply, trying to brush off her concern.
"It's just a long story."
She nods understandingly and says, "I know how that is."
She pauses for a moment before continuing, "My son fell off the kitchen counter last night. He needs to get checked out by a doctor."
Her son looks up from his phone and says, "Mom, I'm hungry."
The woman hesitates for a moment before saying, "I don't want to leave you here alone. What if the doctor calls us back?"
I glance over at the boy and say, "You know what? I'll go get something for all of us."
The woman looks at me skeptically for a moment before nodding in agreement.
"Okay," she says, pulling out her wallet.
"Let me give you some money." I hold up my hand to stop her and say, "No need. I've got it covered."
She smiles gratefully at me and says, "Thank you."
I stand up and walk over to the vending machine in the corner of the waiting room.
I select two sandwiches and a bottle of water before returning to where the woman and her son are sitting.
I hand them each a sandwich and say, "Here you go."
The boy immediately starts eating his sandwich while the woman takes a small bite of hers.
"Thank you so much," she says, looking up at me with gratitude in her eyes.
"No problem," I reply, taking a bite of my own sandwich.
The woman extends her hand and says, "I'm Clara Johnson. This is my son, Noah."
I shake her hand and say, "Mohamed Abdi."
Clara nods and says, "It's nice to meet you, Mohamed."
We continue eating our sandwiches in silence for a few minutes before Clara breaks the silence.
"So what happened to your hand?" she asks, nodding towards my injured hand.
I shrug and say, "Oh, it's nothing. Just a little cut."
Clara raises an eyebrow and says, "A little cut? That looks like it hurts."
I chuckle and say, "It does. But I'll be fine."
Just then, the doctor calls my name from across the waiting room.
I stand up and say goodbye to Clara and Noah before heading towards the doctor's office.
As I walk in, the doctor greets me with a friendly smile.
"Hello there," he says.
"My name is Dr. Smith. How can I help you today?"
I explain to him what happened with my hand and he examines it carefully.
After a few moments, he says, "You've got a pretty deep cut here. We're going to need to stitch it up." I nod in agreement and ask him how much it will cost.
Dr. Smith looks at me with surprise and says, "You don't have insurance?"
I shake my head no and he sighs.
"Well," he says, "the total comes out to be $16,000."
My eyes widen in shock as I hear the number.
There's no way I can afford that.
Dr. Smith notices my reaction and says, "Don't worry about it. I'll cover the bill myself."
I look at him in surprise and ask why he would do that for me.
He shrugs and says, "Because everyone deserves good medical care regardless of their financial situation."
I thank him sincerely and he smiles back at me.
"Okay, now let's get started," he says, gesturing towards the examination table.
I sit down on the table and Dr. Smith prepares the local anesthetic.
He injects it into my hand around my knuckles, and I wince slightly as the needle pierces my skin.
"Sorry about that," he says sympathetically.
"It should start to numb up soon."
I nod and wait patiently for the anesthetic to take effect.
After a few minutes, I can no longer feel any pain in my hand.
Dr. Smith then begins preparing his tools for the procedure.
He arranges them neatly on a metal tray next to him - surgical thread, scissors, and forceps.
The overhead fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on his face as he works.
Once everything is ready, Dr. Smith starts stitching up my wound.
He carefully threads the needle through my skin, pulling it tight with each stitch.
I watch him intently as he works, trying not to think about Monica or anything else that might distract me from what's happening right now. The doctor works silently, closing up the wounds one precise stitch at a time.
After a few minutes, he finishes the sixth and final stitch.
He looks up at me with a reassuring nod, and I realize that sometimes help comes from the most unexpected places.
I exit through the hospital's sliding doors, clutching my prescription bottle of antibiotics.
The rain pours down on me, and I quickly scan the area for a taxi.
Clara steps out of the hospital behind me and asks if I need a ride home.
I ask her about Noah, and she explains that he's with her ex-husband Joe.
I agree to the ride, and we get into her BMW.
As Clara drives, she tells me that she's an art dealer, convincing people to invest in talented artists' works.
She hands me her business card, and we engage in conversation.
When we reach Patrick's apartment, I thank Clara and say goodbye.
Inside, Patrick is playing PlayStation, and he asks about my doctor visit.
I tell him Dr. Smith cleaned and stitched my hand, giving me painkillers and antibiotics.
Patrick pauses the game and looks at me seriously.
"Are you okay?" he asks, concern etched on his face.
I nod, rummaging through my bag to find the painkillers and antibiotics.
But I can't find them anywhere.
I pull out Clara's business card and realize I left them in her BMW.
I dial Clara's number, hoping she can bring the medicine to Patrick's apartment.
Patrick mentions that Monica called while I was gone, apologizing and saying she loves me.
I tell him I need space and our relationship is on hold for now.
Patrick nods understandingly but urges me to either move on or reconcile with Monica soon.
I'm not ready yet, but he supports my decision.
Patrick leans back on the couch, a thoughtful look on his face.
"You know," he begins, "sometimes people say things they don't mean when they're scared of losing someone."
I sigh, knowing he's referring to Monica's call.
I dial Clara's number, explaining that I forgot the painkillers in her car.
She gives me her address, and I head to Upper Manhattan to retrieve my medication.
I take the subway to her location and find myself standing in front of a brownstone building.
Clara answers the door wearing casual clothes, a departure from her hospital attire.
The apartment is spacious, with modern art adorning the walls.
She retrieves my medication from her purse and mentions that Noah is with his father Joe for the weekend.
I thank her again, realizing that sometimes the connections we make are the ones we never expected.
Clara pours two glasses of Pinot Noir, and we sit on her leather couch.
I take a sip, the wine warming my throat.
She asks about my injured hand, and I explain that I punched a wall in anger.
She presses for more information, and I tell her about Monica's betrayal - how we've been together since Denmark five years ago, and how she cheated on me recently.
Clara shares her own story of Joe's infidelity, leading to their divorce.
Our conversation creates an intimate atmosphere, and as I prepare to leave, taking my painkillers, I touch her arm gently.
She looks at me, and I feel a spark of attraction.
I sit back down, and we continue talking, sipping our wine.
Clara asks about my relationship with Monica, and I explain that it's complicated.
She shares her own experiences with Joe, and we commiserate about the challenges of love.
The conversation shifts to age differences, and Clara asks, "How old are you, Mohamed?"
I reply, "20 years old."
Clara smiles and says, "I'm 41."
I nod, not thinking much of it.
But Clara continues, "So I'm 21 years older than you."
I shrug and say, "Age is just a number."
Clara looks at me intensely, and I can feel the tension between us building.
Slowly, I lean in and kiss her.
She kisses me back, and we move to her and Joe's old bedroom.
We undress each other, our bodies pressed together.
I wake up in Clara's bed, her warm body next to mine.
We had s#x in two different positions, and now we lie naked, smiling and kissing.
Clara traces her fingers along my arm, and I feel a sense of comfort.
We talk about our lives, sharing more about our pasts.
Clara mentions her art gallery opening next week, inviting me to attend.
I agree, appreciating the new connection.
I leave Clara's brownstone, walking back to Patrick's Manhattan apartment.
As I dress, Clara hands me a piece of paper with her phone number.
I take it and put it in my pocket, unsure what this means for us.
We share a lingering kiss at her door before I head out.
Walking back, I replay the night in my mind.
It was different from Monica's betrayal, and I feel satisfied yet confused.
When I enter Patrick's apartment, he looks up from his PlayStation.
He notices a change in me and asks what happened.
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching him pause his game and turn to face me with curiosity.
The city lights flicker through his window as I recount meeting Clara at the hospital, leaving out the intimate details.
Patrick listens intently, raising his eyebrows when I mention her age.
"She's an art dealer," I explain, pulling out my phone to show him the gallery invitation.
He examines it closely, then hands it back with a knowing look.
"Just be careful," he says, returning to his game.
"Careful of what?" I ask, a hint of defensiveness in my voice.
Patrick glances at me, his expression softening.
"Just don't lose yourself trying to find something new," he replies, his tone gentle but firm.
I sit on his couch, staring at Clara's number on the piece of paper.
The controller clicks rhythmically as he plays his game.
I pull out my phone and dial the number, hesitating for a moment before pressing the call button.
It rings twice before Clara answers, her voice warm and inviting.
"Hello?" she says, her tone filled with anticipation.
"Hey, Clara," I say, my voice steady.
"Hi, Mohamed," she replies, her voice filled with warmth.
We talk for a few minutes, discussing meeting at her gallery tomorrow afternoon at 2 PM.
She mentions showing me a new piece that just arrived from Berlin.
As we hang up, I notice Patrick has paused his game and is watching me with a curious expression.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.
I nod, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
"Yeah, I think so," I reply, glancing at the gallery invitation again.
Patrick leans back, his eyes searching mine. "Just remember, sometimes people have their own reasons for opening doors."
I take a taxi to Clara's gallery in Chelsea.
During the ride, I rehearse what I'll say when I see her.
The gallery is a modern glass building surrounded by old brick warehouses.
The windows display abstract sculptures that seem to defy gravity.
Inside, Clara greets me wearing a black dress and heels.
Her assistant, Emma, hovers nearby.
Clara leads me through rooms with white walls and bare floors.
We stop in front of a massive canvas covered in blue swirls.
She explains the artist's technique, her hand brushing against mine.
It's an intimate gesture that reminds me of our night together.
Clara leads me to a group of people gathered near a sculpture.
They're all dressed in suits and heels, sipping wine and talking quietly.
Clara introduces me by name, her hand still resting on my arm.
One of them asks how old I am.
I say "Twenty" clearly, watching their eyebrows rise.
The room goes quiet for a moment as they process the twenty-one year age gap between Clara and me.
One woman, wearing pearls, asks if we're dating or just having sex.
Clara laughs and says it's complicated, but we have an arrangement that works for both of us.
I shift uncomfortably, feeling like I'm on display.
Despite the awkwardness, I shake each person's hand and they introduce themselves with forced smiles.
After the introductions, Clara leads me through the gallery.
We walk past the main exhibition space and into a restricted area marked "Staff Only."
The room is filled with large canvases leaning against the walls.
They're still wrapped in brown paper, waiting to be displayed.
Clara locks the door behind us, then unwraps one of the paintings.
It's an enormous abstract piece in deep reds and blacks.
She explains the artist's technique, her hand sliding onto my lower back.
I turn to face her, remembering our night together.
I leave Clara's gallery after the opening, feeling the weight of the age gap and her "arrangement" comment.
I walk through Chelsea, passing by bars and restaurants filled with people laughing and talking.
I pull out my phone and dial Patrick's number.
He answers on the first ring, his voice filled with excitement.
"Hey Mohamed, what's up?" he asks.
"Not much, just got back from Clara's gallery," I reply, glancing around at the crowded streets.
"Nice, how was it?" he asks, his tone curious.
"It was okay, but I think I need to get out," I say, feeling a sudden urge to escape.
"I'm going to a club in SoHo. Want to meet me there?" he asks, his voice filled with anticipation.
"Yeah, sure," I reply, already starting to walk in that direction.
The nightclub is a dark building with a neon sign reading "The Red Door."
The bouncer checks my ID and nods before letting me in.
Inside, the music is loud and pulsating, making it hard to hear anything else.
I scan the room for Patrick but can't find him.
I order a drink at the bar and wait for him to text me his location. A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a message from Patrick.
"Meet me in the VIP section," it reads.
I make my way through the crowd and find the stairs leading up to the VIP area.
The room is filled with couches and tables, all occupied by people drinking and dancing.
I spot Patrick sitting on a couch surrounded by women in tight dresses.
They're all laughing and talking loudly over the music.
Patrick sees me and waves me over.
As I approach, he stands up and gives me a hug.
"Hey Mohamed, where were you? With Clara again?" he asks loudly over the music.
I nod, taking a seat next to him on the couch.
"I'm glad you found Clara," he says seriously, "but Monica still wants you back. She's sorry and misses you."
I look at Patrick, realizing it's time to decide what I truly want.
I sit alone in Patrick's spare bedroom, staring at an old photo of Monica and me from Denmark on my phone.
Her smile in the picture reminds me of our first apartment tour in Brooklyn, how she squealed with excitement at the bay windows.
My thumb hovers over her contact information.
The stitches in my hand throb, a reminder of my rage when I found out about her betrayal.
After my shift at The Manhattan Bar, I collect my high salary and head to Clara's gallery for the new sculpture reveal.
Inside, I meet her male coworkers, having already met the women.
Patrick arrives, mingling with them before finally meeting Clara.
He shakes her hand and jokingly remarks on her attractiveness, prompting me to remind him of other women present.
As we stand by the new artwork, Patrick asks if I've told Clara about Monica.
I admit I haven't and warn him not to mention it.
I wipe down the bar counter at The Manhattan Bar, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble.
It's a typical Friday night, with the usual crowd of businessmen and socialites mingling over drinks.
Suddenly, the door swings open and Clara walks in.
She's wearing a black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and her long blonde hair cascades down her back like a river of gold.
All eyes turn to her as she makes her way to the bar, including mine.
I freeze mid-wipe, my hand hovering above the counter as I watch her approach.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and I can feel the intensity of her gaze from across the room.
She takes a seat directly in front of me, her lips curving into a small smile.
Patrick is mixing drinks at the other end of the bar, but he notices our eye contact and raises an eyebrow at me.
"What can I get you?" he asks Clara, his voice friendly but professional.
"I'll have a martini," she replies, her voice husky and confident.
Patrick nods and starts mixing her drink while I continue to stare at Clara.
She looks different tonight, more relaxed than usual.
Maybe it's because she's not here for work or maybe it's because she knows I'll be here. Patrick hands Clara her martini and she takes a sip, closing her eyes in appreciation.
I watch as she savors the taste, feeling my heart rate increase with every passing second.
When she opens her eyes again, they lock onto mine once more and I feel like I'm drowning in their depths.
"Thanks," she says to Patrick before turning back to me.
"So, Mohamed," she says softly, "how are you doing tonight?"
I swallow hard before answering, trying to sound calm despite the butterflies in my stomach.
"I'm good," I reply, "just working."
She nods and takes another sip of her martini before placing it back on the counter.
As she does so, our fingers brush against each other and I feel a jolt of electricity run through my body.
I pull my hand away quickly, not wanting to make things awkward between us. Clara looks up at me again and smiles slightly before taking another sip of her drink.
I continue to stare at her, unable to tear my eyes away from her beauty.
The rest of the bar fades into the background as all that exists is Clara and me locked in this intense stare-down. Suddenly, Mr. Chen appears beside Clara and greets her warmly.
I stand next to Clara and her bosses Logan and Ricky at the gallery, laughing at Patrick's jokes about mixology.
He suggests an afterparty at our apartment, and everyone agrees.
Back at the apartment, we gather in the living room drinking wine while Logan shares stories about the art world.
Clara follows me to my bedroom, commenting on the lavender candle - a remnant from my time with Monica.
We kiss against my dresser when Patrick bursts in, his face tense.
He tells me Monica is waiting outside.
I rush down the apartment stairs, my footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
The sound of my own breathing fills my ears as I make my way to the front door.
As I approach, I can see Monica standing outside, her blue coat a familiar sight through the glass.
She's pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, her phone clutched tightly in her hand.
I can tell she's been crying by the redness of her eyes and the smudged makeup on her face.
My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the door handle, memories of our past flooding back into my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the door and step outside into the cool night air.
Monica turns to face me, her eyes widening in surprise as she takes in my presence.
"Mo," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of passing cars.
I step out onto the sidewalk, closing the door behind me.
Monica looks at me with tears in her eyes.
She pulls out her phone and shows me a photo of me and Emma, the blonde woman with tattoos from the night we had sex.
"Is this your girlfriend?" she asks, her voice trembling.
I look at the photo and then back at Monica.
"No, she's not my girlfriend," I reply, my voice firm but controlled.
Monica nods, wiping away a tear that has escaped down her cheek.
"Did you sleep with her?" she asks, her voice filled with emotion.
I hesitate for a moment before answering, knowing that I can't lie to her anymore.
"Yes, I slept with her," I admit, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. Monica looks at me, her eyes filled with pain and regret.
"I'm sorry," she says softly, "I was wrong to cheat on you. I miss us."
I sigh deeply, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within me.
"Monica, we're on a break," I remind her gently.
"I know," she replies, "but I want us to be together again. I love you."
I look at her, my heart heavy with sadness and frustration.
"Monica, we need time apart," I explain patiently.
"I understand," she says quietly, "but please don't give up on us."
I nod slowly, feeling a sense of resignation wash over me.
"I won't," I promise softly.
Monica steps forward and wraps her arms around me tightly, holding me close as tears continue to stream down her face.
We stand there for a few moments in silence before she finally pulls away and looks up at me with pleading eyes. "Please come back to me," she whispers urgently.
"I will," I reply softly, my voice barely audible over the sound of our own breathing.
Monica nods slowly before turning and walking away from me down the street.
I watch as she disappears into the distance before finally turning back towards the apartment building and making my way upstairs once again.
I return to the apartment, finding Clara, Logan, Ricky, and Patrick still in the living room.
They're all sitting on the couch playing video games together, completely absorbed in their friendly competition.
After a few minutes, Monica leaves and I return to my bedroom where Clara is waiting for me.
We kiss passionately, shedding our clothes and m#####e on my bed.
The next morning, we wake up naked and smiling at each other.
Clara asks about the woman Patrick mentioned outside, and I explain it was Monica, who c###d on me but wants me back.
Clara empathizes but reminds me we're not official and there's a significant age gap between us.
She asks about my past relationships, curious why I stayed with Monica for so long.
I sit on the edge of my bed, watching as Clara quickly gets dressed.
She mentions needing to open her gallery and gives me a quick kiss goodbye before leaving.
As the door closes behind her, Patrick enters my room with a smirk on his face.
He teases about my night with Clara, calling her a "m#f."
I nod in agreement, acknowledging that things went well between us.
Patrick's expression turns serious as he reminds me that I need to make a decision between Clara and Monica.
He points out the significant age difference between them, with Clara being 41 and Monica only 21.
I acknowledge his words, knowing that I have a difficult choice ahead of me.
I sit alone in Patrick's spare room, staring at the ceiling as the sounds of the city hum outside.
The room is dimly lit, with only a sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains.
My mind wanders, replaying memories of Monica and the recent nights with Clara.
I pull out my phone and scroll through old messages from Monica, then switch to the gallery invitation Clara sent me.
Frustrated, I toss the phone aside and stand up, pacing the small room.
I grab a pen and paper from the desk and start jotting down pros and cons for each woman.
As I write, there's a knock on the door, followed by Patrick entering with a concerned look on his face.
He sits down next to me and waits for me to speak.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone as it rings with an incoming call from Monica.
Her voice is soft and inviting, asking if we can meet tonight.
I hesitate, unsure of what to say.
She assures me that she just wants to talk and promises not to try anything.
I agree to meet her at her Brooklyn apartment, and she thanks me before hanging up.
I arrive at Monica's apartment and she greets me with a bottle of my favorite whiskey.
She leads me to the couch and we sit down, surrounded by the changes she made after I left.
Monica's eyes are sad as she looks at me, confessing how much she misses me.
I admit that I miss her too, but remind her of the pain she caused by cheating on me with Oliver ten times.
Monica nods, acknowledging her mistake and asking if I'm seeing someone else.
I tell her about Clara, describing her black hair and brown eyes, and mention that she has a son named Henry.
Monica listens intently, tears in her eyes, and asks if I love Clara.
I confirm that I do love Clara, but also still love Monica.
Monica pleads with me to come back to her, promising to do anything to win me back.
I explain that I came here tonight to make a choice between her and Clara, and I've chosen Clara.
I stand up from Monica's couch, my legs feeling heavy as I make my way towards the door.
Monica follows behind me, her footsteps unsteady.
When I reach for the doorknob, she grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as she begs me one last time.
I gently remove her hand and step into the hallway.
The door clicks shut behind me, and immediately I hear her collapse against it.
Her wailing echoes through the corridor - raw, guttural sounds that make my stomach twist.
I walk down the stairs, my eyes fixed on the steps ahead.
The sounds of her crying grow fainter with each passing floor.
When I reach the lobby, I push through the doors and step out into the cool night air.
The city lights blur together as I hail a taxi and give the driver Patrick's address.
The ride is a blur, my mind still reeling from the pain I've caused Monica.
When we arrive, I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk.
Patrick's apartment is only a block away, so I start walking, my feet carrying me on autopilot.
As I approach his building, I see him standing outside, smoking a cigarette.
He looks up and sees me, his expression shifting from concern to curiosity.
"Hey, man," he says as I approach.
"How'd it go with Monica?"
I take a deep breath before answering.
"I ended it," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Patrick nods slowly, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"So you're choosing Clara?"
I nod again, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
"Even though she's older and has a kid?"
I sigh, running my hand through my hair.
"Yeah. I know it's not ideal, but... I just can't be with Monica anymore."
Patrick exhales a stream of smoke before speaking again. "I get it. You deserve to be happy. And if Clara makes you happy, then that's what matters."
I nod again, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
"Thanks for understanding."
Patrick shrugs and flicks his cigarette butt onto the ground.
No problem. Now come on inside and let's have a drink.
I follow him into his apartment and sit down on the couch while he grabs us each a beer from the fridge.
He hands me one and sits down next to me, taking a long swig before speaking again.
"I'm just glad you're finally making a decision. This back-and-forth with Clara and Monica has been going on for too long."
I take a sip of my beer and nod in agreement.
"Yeah. Me too."
Patrick looks at me with a serious expression before continuing.
"You know, I've known Monica since high school. We've been friends for years. But after what she did to you... I don't know if I can ever trust her again."
I sigh and set my beer down on the coffee table.
"I understand where you're coming from. But at the end of the day, we all make mistakes. And Monica loves me. She just made a terrible choice."
Patrick nods slowly, taking another sip of his beer.
"Yeah. I guess you're right. We've all made our share of bad decisions."
I stand up and start pacing around Patrick's living room, my mind racing with thoughts of Clara and what the future might hold.
I stop in front of the window and stare out at the city skyline, feeling a mix of excitement and uncertainty.
Patrick watches me from the couch, a knowing look on his face.
"You okay?"
I turn to face him, my eyes searching for answers.
"Yeah. I'm just... trying to figure everything out."
Patrick nods and takes another drag from his cigarette.
"You'll get there. Just give it time."
I sigh and continue pacing around the room, my thoughts still swirling in my head.
Finally, I stop in front of Patrick again and look him straight in the eye.
"I'm sure about Clara," I say firmly.
Patrick raises an eyebrow at me, clearly surprised by my sudden declaration.
"You're sure about her? Even though she's older than you and has a kid?"
I nod slowly, trying to gather my thoughts into words.
"Yes. I know it's not ideal, but... Clara is different. She's mature and responsible and she makes me feel safe."
Patrick looks at me skeptically, taking another long drag from his cigarette before speaking again. "Are you sure you're not just caught up in the moment? You've only known Clara for a few weeks. How can you be so certain about her already?"
I sigh and run my hand through my hair, trying to find the right words to explain how I feel.
"It's hard to put into words," I admit.
"But being with Clara feels... right. Like everything else in my life has fallen into place."
Patrick nods thoughtfully, taking another sip from his beer.
"Okay. If you're sure about Clara, then that's all that matters."
I nod back at him, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
"Thanks for understanding," I say gratefully.
"No problem," Patrick replies with a smile.
"Now come on and sit back down so we can talk more about this."
I nod and take a seat next to him on the couch again, grabbing another beer from the coffee table as he continues speaking.
"So tell me more about Clara," he says curiously.
"What's she like beyond the basics?"
I take a deep breath, trying to encapsulate everything Clara means to me.
"She's... she's got this warmth about her, you know? Like when you're with her, the world feels a little less chaotic."
Patrick nods, taking a sip of his beer.
"I get it. She's the calm in your storm."
I smile, remembering the sound of Clara's laughter.
"Exactly. And she's smart, too. We can talk about anything and everything."
Patrick raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
"Well, whatever you decide, I'll support you."
I nod back at him, feeling grateful for his understanding.
"Thanks, man. That means a lot to me."
We sit there in silence for a moment, sipping our beers and contemplating the future.
Finally, Patrick speaks up again.
"So what do you think you'll do first? Move in with Clara or something else?"
"I don't know yet. I guess we'll just have to see how things go."
Patrick nods and takes another long drag from his cigarette before speaking again.
"Well, whatever you decide, I'll be here for you." I nod and take another sip of my beer, feeling grateful for Patrick's unwavering support.
We continue talking and drinking for a while longer, discussing everything from our jobs to our love lives.
As the night wears on, I start to feel more at ease with my decision to choose Clara over Monica.
I realize that Clara is exactly what I need right now - someone who can provide stability and comfort in a chaotic world.
As I leave Patrick's apartment later that night, I feel a sense of peace wash over me.
I know that choosing Clara was the right decision for me, and I'm excited to see where our relationship will go from here.
The next day, I meet Clara at her art gallery to help her set up for her show.
As soon as I walk through the door, I'm struck by the beauty of the space.
The walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and sculptures that seem to come alive in the light.
Clara greets me with a warm smile and leads me into the main room where her artwork is displayed.
She shows me around each piece carefully, explaining the inspiration behind them and how they make her feel. As we walk through the gallery together, I can't help but notice how gentle Clara is with her art.
Her fingers trace the edges of a canvas, and she turns to me with a thoughtful expression.
"Do you think Monica will come to the show?" she asks softly, her eyes searching mine for a hint of reassurance.
I hesitate for a moment before answering, "I don't know, but I hope she does; it might help her understand why I chose this path."
Clara nods, her lips curving into a small smile.
"I hope so too," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of our footsteps echoing through the gallery.
As we make our way to the back room, I notice Clara's hands shaking slightly as she arranges a few last-minute pieces.
I reach out and gently squeeze her hand, offering a reassuring touch.
"It's going to be okay," I say softly, my voice filled with conviction.
Clara looks up at me, her eyes searching mine for reassurance.
"Are you sure?" she asks, her voice laced with doubt.
I nod firmly, my grip on her hand tightening ever so slightly.
"Yes. Everything will work out exactly as it should."
Clara takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing as she lets go of some of the tension that had been building inside her.
"Thank you," she says gratefully, her eyes shining with gratitude. As we continue arranging the artwork, Clara points out a new sculpture that she wants to place in a specific spot.
She explains how it represents a moment of vulnerability and strength in her life, and I listen intently, fascinated by the depth of emotion that pours into each piece.
Once we have everything in place, Clara steps back and surveys the room with a satisfied smile.
"It looks beautiful," she says softly, her eyes scanning the space with pride.
I nod in agreement, admiring the way each piece seems to complement the others perfectly.
"You've done an amazing job," I say sincerely, my voice filled with admiration.
Clara blushes slightly at the compliment but doesn't say anything else.
Instead, she turns her attention back to the artwork and begins making a few final adjustments before stepping away from the wall once again.
As the gallery doors open to the first visitors, I realize that this is where I'm meant to be.
I stand beside Clara as she greets the first guests, my hand resting lightly on her back.
We make our way through the crowd, stopping at each piece of art to discuss its meaning and significance.
Clara introduces me to a couple who are interested in purchasing one of her sculptures, and I watch as she effortlessly explains the inspiration behind it.
As more guests arrive, Clara's confidence grows with each interaction.
She smiles warmly at me, her eyes filled with gratitude for my support.
"Do you think Monica will understand why I chose this?" Clara asks, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
I nod, meeting her gaze with reassurance. "I think she will, eventually. Sometimes it just takes time to see things clearly."
Clara smiles softly, squeezing my hand. "I'm glad you're here with me. It makes everything feel more possible."
As the evening progresses, we mingle with the guests, discussing Clara's artwork and the inspiration behind each piece.
At one point, Clara's phone rings, and she excuses herself to take the call.
I watch as she steps into a quiet corner of the gallery, her expression serious as she speaks to the person on the other end of the line.
After a few minutes, Clara returns to my side, her face lighting up with excitement.
"That was a potential buyer," she whispers, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"They're interested in purchasing one of my sculptures."
I smile, feeling a surge of happiness for her.
"That's amazing," I say, squeezing her hand.
Clara nods, her smile widening.
"Yes, it is. Let's see what happens next."
As the night goes on, more visitors arrive and Clara's artwork continues to draw attention.
The sales increase, and Clara's excitement grows with each purchase.
At one point, a man approaches us and expresses interest in buying one of Clara's larger sculptures.
Clara steps away with him to finalize the deal, leaving me to mingle with the remaining guests.
After a few minutes, Clara returns to my side, beaming with joy.
"He bought it," she whispers, her voice filled with excitement.
I smile, feeling a sense of pride and happiness for her.
"That's amazing," I say, pulling her into a hug.
Clara laughs, her eyes shining with delight.
"I know. It feels incredible."
As the night comes to a close and the gallery begins to empty out, Clara turns to me with a grateful smile. "Thank you for being here tonight," she says softly, her voice filled with emotion.
I nod, my heart swelling with love for her.
"Of course. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."
Clara leans in and kisses me gently on the cheek, her touch sending shivers down my spine.
"I'm so glad you were here," she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
I take Clara to a small Italian restaurant she recommended for our date.
As we walk in, I notice the waiters and other diners glancing at us, their eyes lingering on the twenty-one-year age difference between us.
Clara, dressed in a simple yet elegant black dress, smiles warmly at me as we take our seats at a cozy table by the window.
We order pasta and wine, engaging in deep conversation about art, life, and everything in between.
As we enjoy our meal, I can't help but notice the subtle stares from other patrons, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disapproval.
But Clara seems unfazed by it all, her focus solely on me and the moment we share.
Midway through our meal, a waiter comes over to refill our glasses of wine.
He hesitates for a moment before pouring, his eyes flickering with a hint of judgment.
Clara notices it too and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand reassuringly.
We finish our meal in comfortable silence, savoring each bite and the warmth of each other's company.
As we linger over dessert, Clara looks at me with a thoughtful expression.
"Do you ever worry about what people think?" she asks softly, her eyes searching mine for an honest answer.
I shake my head, meeting her gaze with unwavering confidence. "No, because what matters most is how we feel about each other."
I notice an older couple at the adjacent table, their eyes fixed on us with warm smiles.
The woman, dressed in a vibrant red shawl, leans over and whispers something to her husband.
He nods in agreement, his eyes never leaving us.
As we prepare to leave, the couple gets up from their table and approaches us.
The woman, with a kind smile, reaches out and gently touches Clara's arm.
"You two make a beautiful couple," she says softly, her voice filled with sincerity.
Clara blushes slightly, her cheeks flushing with gratitude.
"Thank you," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man steps forward and introduces himself as Robert, his wife as Marie.
"We've been married for forty years," he says proudly, his eyes twinkling with love.
Marie interjects, "And we have an age gap of ten years. It's never mattered to us."
Clara's eyes widen with surprise and delight as she looks at me.
"That's wonderful," she says genuinely.
Robert smiles warmly at Clara and then turns to me.
"Would you like some wine recommendations? We're connoisseurs."
I nod appreciatively, grateful for the genuine interest they show in our lives.
Marie leans closer to Clara and whispers something in her ear that makes Clara's face light up with excitement. As we continue our conversation with Robert and Marie, I watch Clara's shoulders relax further.
She seems more at ease now that she has found a connection with someone who understands our unique situation.
Marie begins to tell us about how she met Robert when she was a young teacher and he was already an established businessman.
Their love story is filled with passion and resilience, and Clara listens intently, her hand still intertwined with mine under the table.
As we finish our dessert and prepare to leave, Robert turns to me with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Would you like to go on a double date next week?" he asks playfully.
Clara's eyes sparkle with excitement as she looks at me hopefully.
I smile at Robert and nod in agreement.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea," I reply, feeling Clara's hand squeeze mine with enthusiasm.
Marie claps her hands together, her eyes twinkling. "Perfect! We'll show you our favorite little vineyard just outside the city."
Clara beams at them, her earlier apprehension replaced by genuine excitement. "We'd love that. Thank you both so much."
I pull out my phone to exchange numbers with Robert.
Clara and Marie continue to chat about their shared love for art and wine.
Robert types his number into my contacts and mentions a specific Cabernet we should try at the vineyard.
Clara leans closer to Marie, her perfume wafting towards me as she shows Marie photos of her gallery on her phone.
We agree to meet next Saturday at 2 PM, and Robert texts me the address of the vineyard.
The next day, Clara and I arrive at the vineyard, where Robert and Marie are already waiting for us.
We sit at an outdoor table under a canopy of lush greenery, surrounded by rows of grapevines that stretch towards the horizon.
The warm sun casts a golden glow over the vineyard, and a gentle breeze carries the sweet scent of ripening grapes.
Robert pours glasses of wine for all of us, and we take a moment to appreciate the beauty of our surroundings.
Clara smiles at me, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
"This is perfect," she says softly, her voice carried away by the breeze.
I nod in agreement, taking a sip of the rich, full-bodied wine.
As we sip our wine, Robert turns to me with curiosity in his eyes.
"Tell us about your hand," he says gently, his gaze fixed on the bandage wrapped around my knuckles.
I glance at Clara, who gives me a reassuring smile.
"Well," I begin, "it's a bit of a long story."
Marie leans forward, her eyes wide with interest.
"We have time," she says encouragingly.
I take another sip of wine before continuing.
"I met Clara at the hospital after she had been in an accident. I was there visiting my friend Patrick. We struck up a conversation and discovered we had a lot in common. Clara's son Henry was there too. He's a great kid."
Clara smiles warmly at me, her eyes filled with gratitude.
"Then what happened?"
Marie asks curiously.
I chuckle softly before continuing.
"Well, after meeting Clara and Henry, I went back to my apartment and found out that my girlfriend Monica was cheating on me with Oliver Thorne."
Clara gasps in shock, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh no!" she exclaims softly.
I nod solemnly.
"Yes. It was quite a blow. But I decided to move on and start fresh. Patrick offered me a place to stay until I could get back on my feet."
Robert nods sympathetically.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says genuinely.
I shrug nonchalantly before continuing.
"So, I moved in with Patrick and started focusing on my own well-being. But then I realized I had left my pain medication in Clara's car."
Clara laughs softly, her cheeks flushing slightly.
"Oh yes," she says playfully.
"I remember that."
I smile at her before continuing.
"So, I went back to Clara's house to retrieve my medication. And that's when we shared our first kiss."
Marie claps her hands together excitedly, her eyes twinkling with delight.
"That's so romantic!" she exclaims enthusiastically.
I lean back in my chair, taking Clara's hand in mine.
Marie turns to Clara with a curious expression.
"What about you?" she asks softly.
"How did you feel about the age difference?"
Clara looks at me, her eyes filled with warmth.
"I have to admit, I was a bit hesitant at first," she says honestly.
"But as I got to know him better, I realized that he was different from other men I had met. He was kind and genuine, and he truly cared for Henry."
Robert nods thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on Clara.
"That's wonderful," he says genuinely.
Marie leans forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"And what about Joe?" she asks softly.
Clara's expression changes slightly, a hint of sadness crossing her face.
"Joe is my ex-husband," she explains quietly.
"We were married for many years, but we grew apart. He's a good man, but we weren't meant to be together forever."
I squeeze Clara's hand gently, offering her silent support.
Robert nods sympathetically, his eyes filled with understanding.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says genuinely.
Marie reaches out and touches Clara's arm reassuringly.
"But it sounds like you've found something special with this young man," she says softly.
Clara smiles at me, her eyes shining with happiness. "Yes," she replies softly.
"I have."
We continue talking and laughing together as the sun begins to set over the vineyard.
The sky turns pink and orange, casting a warm glow over our little group.
As the stars begin to twinkle in the night sky, Robert pours us each another glass of wine.
"To love," he says softly, raising his glass in a toast.
I raise my glass to meet Clara's, our eyes locking as the crystal makes a delicate sound.
The late afternoon sun catches the deep red liquid, casting a warm glow across the wooden table.
Robert and Marie mirror our gesture, creating a circle of raised glasses.
Clara's fingers brush against mine as we lower our drinks, and she leans closer, her perfume mixing with the vineyard's earthy scent.
When she whispers "thank you for being here" in my ear, I notice her eyes are slightly wet.
I squeeze her hand gently, feeling the weight of unspoken promises between us.
I lean towards Clara, my eyes drawn to hers as the sun casts a golden glow across her face.
Her hand squeezes mine, and I feel the vulnerability in her touch.
Robert and Marie tactfully focus on their wine, giving us a private moment.
The setting sun casts a warm glow across Clara's face, illuminating her delicate features.
I close the distance between us, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine.
Her perfume - a subtle blend of jasmine and vanilla - fills my senses.
When our lips meet, the kiss is tender and unhurried.
Clara's hand moves to my cheek, her thumb brushing gently against my skin.
The intimate gesture feels different from our passionate encounters - more meaningful, more certain.
I follow Clara between the rows of grapevines, our fingers intertwined as we leave Robert and Marie at the table.
We continue walking, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the vineyard.
The air is filled with the scent of ripening grapes and the distant sound of laughter.
As we walk, Clara tells me stories about her life, about her dreams and aspirations.
I listen intently, feeling a deep connection to this woman who has captured my heart.
Eventually, we come to a quiet spot overlooking the vineyard.
We sit down on a bench, and Clara turns to me with a smile.
"Thank you for being here with me," she says softly.
I take her hand in mine and look into her eyes.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," I reply honestly.
We sit there for a while, watching the sun set over the vineyard.
The sky is painted with hues of pink and orange, and the air is filled with a sense of peace and contentment. Eventually, it gets dark and Clara suggests that we head back to Robert and Marie's place.
I agree, and we make our way back through the rows of grapevines.
When we arrive at the table, Robert and Marie are still there, sipping their wine and chatting quietly.
Clara excuses herself to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Robert and Marie.
Robert looks at me with a curious expression.
"So," he says softly, "how are you enjoying your time at the vineyard?"
I smile at him.
"It's been wonderful," I reply honestly.
"The scenery is beautiful, and the company has been great."
Marie nods in agreement.
"Yes," she says softly, "we've had a lovely time here. It's nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life every now and then."
Robert nods in agreement.
"Yes," he says softly, "it's good for the soul."
Clara returns from the bathroom just then, and we say our goodbyes to Robert and Marie before heading back to our car. We drive to a quiet spot where Clara parks her car on the side of the road in an area surrounded by trees that block us from view.
She turns off the engine and turns to me with a smile on her face.
We undress each other inside the car before having s#x until we're both satisfied.
After we're done, Clara drives me to Patrick's apartment.
As we pull up to the building, I can feel my heart racing with excitement.
I'm not sure what the future holds for Clara and me, but I know that I want to spend more time with her.
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound being the hum of the engine.
I turn to her and smile.
"Thank you for today," I say softly.
She smiles back at me, her eyes shining in the streetlights.
"You're welcome," she replies.
"I had a great time too."
I lean over and kiss her gently on the lips.
As I pull away, I can see the desire in her eyes.
Clara takes a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper.
"There's something I need to tell you," she says, her eyes searching mine.
I nod, sensing the gravity of her words.