Think of it as a sort of party favor

WAKING up from the reality of a one-night stand, I was confronted by two very disparate trains of thought. First: “That was exactly what my evolved, independent, sexual self needed.” Then, the dreaded: “I must stop drinking. Forever.”

On this morning, I was closer to the latter when I spied it on the nightstand -- a chunky sterling watch, heavy, male, and definitely not mine.

I had heard anecdotes from other unlucky friends: a lingering leftover that stubbornly reaffirms that the night before, you let down both your guard -- and your Cosabellas. A jacket. A bracelet. Or the True Hollywood Story of forgotten belongings, the wallet. There they are, owning a small piece of your personal real estate while simultaneously staking a large psychological claim on your conscience.

Based on the item, varying degrees of “return urgency” begin to take shape. Clothing? You can donate it to Salvation Army. Jewelry? You just might have to call that friend who knows his friend. As for the wallet, everything you need in order to do the right thing is within its leather walls. Extra credit if you can resist snooping to find out if he’s a Visa or an Amex man.

The owner of the watch -- it was a Breitling -- lived in my neighborhood. I knew this because I had actually met him once before (a fact that took the tiniest sting out of my Catholic guilt-ridden, morning-after mind thump).

My spunky cousin had gotten me hooked on karaoke during one ice-ravaged winter in Manhattan. Somewhere between my Roger Daltrey-goes-femme “You Better You Better You Bet” and indie anthem “I Am Woman,” we locked eyes. By the time my cousin and I did our “Let’s Talk About Sex” white-girl rap, he had become our groupie, cheering us on with the same enthusiasm I imagined a record producer has when stumbling across hot new talent. Or maybe that was the Absolut thinking.

That first night, I went back to his place. He had a piano in his living room. We kissed on his overstuffed leather couch. Despite his urging, I went home. Victory was mine! In the damnable but oft-too-true “rules” of dating, the No. 1 convention is that if you spend the night on the first meeting, he won’t call. Don’t do it, and he will.

He called.

Because of the holidays, though, our date never came to fruition. By the time I bumped into him again at the same karaoke bar, he was all but filed away in the “bad timing” folder.

But like friends who had known each other for years, we reunited over much hoopla, followed by a rousing duet of “Ebony and Ivory.” He bought me a dirty vodka martini. I took him back to my place.

I let down my guard.

And now it was just me and his Breitling, the faces of its three submarine chronometers staring at me plaintively.

My own wheels started turning. If he did call, would it be for the sole purpose of getting his watch back? How awful! But the reality of what happened was even worse: He had my number, he knew where I lived, yet he never made contact. It crushed my ego to think he would rather give up his pricey timepiece than get in touch with me.

Ouch.

I grappled with what to do. I had no phone number for him, no last name. I didn’t know a soul who knew him. I thought about leaving it with his doorman, but I imagined the watch never getting delivered.

A few months later, I saw him in our neighborhood cafe. He did a double take upon seeing me, freshly manicured and pedicured, hair highlighted and blown straight, eyebrows plucked to arched perfection. I pretended not to notice.

And I silently thanked Curtis from Kansas. He had bought the Breitling on eBay for $550, an unknowing investment in quiet vengeance, a bid for my belated and bittersweet afterglow.

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Leslie Billera can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.