weekend, chapter 1
Friday afternoon, I sprint through hours of work, and still miss the 3 o'clock train. At 3:40, I shamelessly tell my client, "I have to go in about five minutes to catch a train," and I'm off. Speed walking in three-inch heels, dragging my carry-on bag, nervously checking my watch. Several older men help me carry my suitcase up the many flights of stairs, and I don't have the heart to tell them not to strain themselves. I run to a kiosk, print my ticket, and join the line for the train. A girl behind me is panting and fanning herself, and we smile at each other. "Never try to get out early on a Friday!" she exclaims, and I agree.
I find a seat, heave my bag above my head, and sit down, with seven minutes to go. Whew. I realize that everyone is talking, despite being in the "Quiet Car," and I quickly dial back into my team conference call, which has now lasted, off and on, for four hours.
The train leaves. I breathe.
Twenty minutes before my scheduled arrival, I start, ridiculously, to prepare. Deodorant, perfume, foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara. Gum. Contacts. I notice the girl seated in front of doing the same thing, applying lipstick, checking her reflection in a tiny compact mirror. I finish early. I fidget. Five minutes. Four. Three. Two. One.
"This is...Washington, Union Station. "
I take a deep breath, and step off the train. I walk toward the crowds of waiting families and friends, and see a tall man wearing a sport coat and holding flowers...but it's not him. I am both relieved and disappointed.
I walk into the gate area, and Clerk is not there. I use the restroom, check my appearance again, and when I emerge, I don't see him. Earlier that week, he had promised to meet me, and I had assured him that I could take a cab on my own. "It's only a quarter mile from my work," he joked, "and if I can't even get there on time, maybe you should spend the weekend somewhere else." I call him, and he doesn't pick up. What if he saw me and left? I sit down, and try to look cute. I call my girlfriend, M, who is going to meet us for a drink.
And then I look across the grand, high ceilinged room, and see him. Tall, sweaty, in running shorts and shirt. I almost laugh. I look away, quickly. And then he is here, in front of me, and I ask M to hold on so that I can kiss him.
"I am sweaty and gross," he announces. We sit back down, and I tell M to come meet us. We joke about how I should just leave with her, since he was late. She picks us up, and we head to his place. M is headed south for a weekend trip, and she has delayed her road trip by a couple hours to meet us. He opens a bottle of red wine for us. "You should stay and have dinner with us, crash here, and just drive down in the morning," he says, pouring the wine. I swish my glass, and inhale deeply, before drinking. It is rich and dark and good, and I am eager to calm down.
He gets in the shower, and M and I, a little tipsy, start to giggle. "I'm not staying here," she stage whispers, indignantly. "I'm married! What would I do- share the air mattress? I bet this wine is drugged!" We giggle uncontrollably, trying to be quiet.
He emerges, with wet hair, cleaned up, and sits in the armchair next to me. We chat about sports, movies, shopping. At one point, I am leaning forward, propping my right elbow on my knee. My left arm rests behind my right elbow, on my thigh, so that my left hand is free. He takes it, and I am surprised. M. cannot see that we are holding hands, and it feels furtive, like holding hands under a table.
M. leaves, and we head out for dinner. We walk to a local place. Empty at 9 on a Friday night. The food is Southernish, but mediocre. I offer him a bite of my grilled salmon, and he declines. "I'm not a fish eater," he explains. I frown. "I just never really liked it," he says. This, and the fact that he doesn't really like French cuisine bother me. If he doesn't like French cuisine, or fish, what would he say to a bowl of Taiwanese niu du tang (tripe soup)? Or even congee? I ignore my doubts.
We walk towards a local bar, and he tells me that he had told his coworkers about promising to meet me on at the station. He says that one of the women, who has been dating someone for two years, had reponded, "Pfff, I don't meet my boyfriend at the train station," and I laugh, wondering if he even noticed the analogy. Am I his...? No. I'm sure it was just a comment...
At the bar, we have a drink. We watch people. We make fun of a prepster in jeans, flip flops, and a polo shirt with his collar turned up, as he tries to pick up girls clustered around him, in shiny tank tops.
I stand in front of him, and he reaches around my waist, and touches my stomach, under my shirt. I stop. And then I turn around and kiss him. We stand there close, kissing and kissing, and it is soft and sweet and then hard and fast, until finally he says, "Ok, let's go."
I find a seat, heave my bag above my head, and sit down, with seven minutes to go. Whew. I realize that everyone is talking, despite being in the "Quiet Car," and I quickly dial back into my team conference call, which has now lasted, off and on, for four hours.
The train leaves. I breathe.
Twenty minutes before my scheduled arrival, I start, ridiculously, to prepare. Deodorant, perfume, foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara. Gum. Contacts. I notice the girl seated in front of doing the same thing, applying lipstick, checking her reflection in a tiny compact mirror. I finish early. I fidget. Five minutes. Four. Three. Two. One.
"This is...Washington, Union Station. "
I take a deep breath, and step off the train. I walk toward the crowds of waiting families and friends, and see a tall man wearing a sport coat and holding flowers...but it's not him. I am both relieved and disappointed.
I walk into the gate area, and Clerk is not there. I use the restroom, check my appearance again, and when I emerge, I don't see him. Earlier that week, he had promised to meet me, and I had assured him that I could take a cab on my own. "It's only a quarter mile from my work," he joked, "and if I can't even get there on time, maybe you should spend the weekend somewhere else." I call him, and he doesn't pick up. What if he saw me and left? I sit down, and try to look cute. I call my girlfriend, M, who is going to meet us for a drink.
And then I look across the grand, high ceilinged room, and see him. Tall, sweaty, in running shorts and shirt. I almost laugh. I look away, quickly. And then he is here, in front of me, and I ask M to hold on so that I can kiss him.
"I am sweaty and gross," he announces. We sit back down, and I tell M to come meet us. We joke about how I should just leave with her, since he was late. She picks us up, and we head to his place. M is headed south for a weekend trip, and she has delayed her road trip by a couple hours to meet us. He opens a bottle of red wine for us. "You should stay and have dinner with us, crash here, and just drive down in the morning," he says, pouring the wine. I swish my glass, and inhale deeply, before drinking. It is rich and dark and good, and I am eager to calm down.
He gets in the shower, and M and I, a little tipsy, start to giggle. "I'm not staying here," she stage whispers, indignantly. "I'm married! What would I do- share the air mattress? I bet this wine is drugged!" We giggle uncontrollably, trying to be quiet.
He emerges, with wet hair, cleaned up, and sits in the armchair next to me. We chat about sports, movies, shopping. At one point, I am leaning forward, propping my right elbow on my knee. My left arm rests behind my right elbow, on my thigh, so that my left hand is free. He takes it, and I am surprised. M. cannot see that we are holding hands, and it feels furtive, like holding hands under a table.
M. leaves, and we head out for dinner. We walk to a local place. Empty at 9 on a Friday night. The food is Southernish, but mediocre. I offer him a bite of my grilled salmon, and he declines. "I'm not a fish eater," he explains. I frown. "I just never really liked it," he says. This, and the fact that he doesn't really like French cuisine bother me. If he doesn't like French cuisine, or fish, what would he say to a bowl of Taiwanese niu du tang (tripe soup)? Or even congee? I ignore my doubts.
We walk towards a local bar, and he tells me that he had told his coworkers about promising to meet me on at the station. He says that one of the women, who has been dating someone for two years, had reponded, "Pfff, I don't meet my boyfriend at the train station," and I laugh, wondering if he even noticed the analogy. Am I his...? No. I'm sure it was just a comment...
At the bar, we have a drink. We watch people. We make fun of a prepster in jeans, flip flops, and a polo shirt with his collar turned up, as he tries to pick up girls clustered around him, in shiny tank tops.
I stand in front of him, and he reaches around my waist, and touches my stomach, under my shirt. I stop. And then I turn around and kiss him. We stand there close, kissing and kissing, and it is soft and sweet and then hard and fast, until finally he says, "Ok, let's go."
posted 1:35 PM
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