It could’ve happened to anyone. I was downtown last Friday night, a little drunk in some godforsaken divebar. He looked cute. Six five, blue-eyed, even told me he worked in finance with Goldman Sachs. He was 28. Mature. Just the type of guy I’ve been looking for to get over my manchild ex. He approached me and offered to buy me a few cocktails. Before I knew it, I was back at his place.
But as I opened the door, I was greeted with the horrifying realization that I’d been picked up by a mattress dweller. Lying on the floor of his bare-as-bones apartment was a mattress with a flat sheet crumpled over it, not a bed frame in sight. Next to it was a single lampless nightstand with a half finished packet of Zyns on top.
“I’m something of a minimalist,” he said, grinning as he closed the door shut to furnished civilization. “Totally into that Buddhist Marie Kondo shit, lol.”
He offered me another drink, and soon enough I found myself sitting on the side of his mattress—there was no chair—sipping Smirnoff out of a red solo cup, diluted with cranberry juice he found in the back of his fridge (hey, he had one of those at least). After the drink was finished, he rinsed the cup out in the sink before refilling it to make himself a drink (I soon realized that was his only cup).
Thankfully, the sex was similarly minimalist, and I managed to get out soon after he fell asleep. Say what you will, but at least performative men have pillows.
