distraction

sunday 15 may

We wake up, though we are both still a little tired. He mentions that the Sunday NY Times is waiting downstairs, and then I am no longer drowsy. Before he goes downstairs, we somehow start talking about us. He teases me again about having waited several days before returning his first email.

“At first, when you didn’t reply right away, I thought, ‘Ok, she knows the routine.’ But then, FIVE DAYS LATER, when you still hadn’t written back, I thought, ‘Nobody FIVE DAYS me! Who is this girl?’”

I explain to him that I had initially not responded because I wanted to think of something funny to say, but then I had just gotten legitimately busy at work, and didn’t have time to write back until the weekend. “Actually, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again, after that first night...”

“Why not?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Because I’m jaded and cynical...we live in different cities...” I trail off, not wanting to vocalize all the reasons it never should have worked out.

“It’s a good thing you were having a party so soon after we met,” he muses. “Otherwise, I would have had to manufacture some other excuse to come to New York, and that’s probably more than I would have been willing to commit to, at that point.”

I feel a little hurt by this, though it is a perfectly rational statement, and that I just said I didn’t even expect a call.

We talk a little more, and he says, “It was a done deal after the party, though.”

It is my turn to be surprised. “Really?” Though I do remember some very sweet kisses the morning after my birthday party, I don’t remember that he had seemed immediately more attentive. He continues, “Ridiculous party, followed by making out at a strip club, making out in the taxi, and then ridiculous sex? I figured, ‘I don’t know if this is going to work out, but it’s definitely worth pursuing.’” My look of fake disapproval quickly morphs into a grin.

He gets the paper, and we sit for a while, reading each other funny lines and commenting on interesting articles.

Eventually, we get ready and head out to meet my friend K, her husband G, and her younger sister, L, for brunch. I wear a beige cardinals baseball cap, a sporty, very short black mini-skirt, black flip flops, and a tight gray cotton tank top that says, “WHOLE LOTTA WOMAN.” I am ridiculous. I love it.

I am a little jittery. I imagine my friends will like Clerk, because he is charming and funny and adorable and because they know how much I like him. But I still worry, What if we have nothing to talk about? What if I seem really different around him? What if we’re a bad couple?

I realize now that not only was I worried me that they wouldn’t like him, but I worried that he wouldn’t like them. Not because I feared my friends wouldn’t seem interesting and intelligent, but simply because my friends are a reflection of me, and I so so so want him to like me.

But I have nothing to fear. The conversation is easy. Clerk and G talk about home improvement, and we all commiserate about the Republicans. After brunch, we kill time at a nearby bookstore. We wander through the stacks of books, talking about what we’ve been meaning to read, and what we liked about certain books.

On the Metro to the baseball game, he says, “You know another thing I like about you, is that you laugh at everything I say. I feel like the funniest guy in the world around you.” I smile at him. “You’re going to spoil me. I’m going to think all my material is great, and then when people don’t laugh, I won’t know why. Could you be a little more discerning?” he teases me. Not surprisingly, I laugh. I look at him with mock seriousness, but I can’t help smiling.

We weave through the crowds to his seats. I ask him, “What do you admire about people?”

His brow wrinkles, and he looks pleadingly at me, “I’m really tired. Can we..”

“...talk about this later?” I finish. He nods, and puts his head on my shoulder for a minute, awkwardly, because of the difference in our heights.

It is a fast game, and we share information about all kinds of silly things. We both prefer vanilla over chocolate. He likes crème brulee, I like fruit desserts. I imagine people around us laughing at the way we sit, too close, all over each other.

The trains are crowded, and I have to hold onto his waist for balance. I don’t mind. After we get home, G and I decide to run to the store, and when we get back, Clerk is asleep. We let him be, and the two of us chat in the kitchen. G is classically preppy and handsome. Short, blond, in a polo shirt, shorts, and flip flops. His collar is slightly turned up, and I can’t tell if it is purposeful and/or ironic. As we talk, I am increasingly impressed by his intelligence and surprised by his liberalness. He uses “effete” and “fait accompli” in conversation, without self-consciousness. He describes his last serious girlfriend, S, whom he dated for four years, college. S was half Caucasian, and half African American, and G waited for two years before telling his mother about S’s ethnic background. We talk about her and about his half-Chinese, half-Caucasian female friend, whose Chinese mother is pushing her to be with someone Chinese, despite her own choice.

He asks me, “Are your parents pushing you in one way or another?”

I hesitate, not sure whether Clerk can hear us. “No, not really,” I lie. “I haven’t even talked to Clerk about this,” I confess.

After an hour, Clerk wanders out of his bedroom, with the slightly bewildered look resulting from an evening nap. It is too late to make it to a movie, so we talk and read. Clerk is reading the NY Times article about class, and we start talking about the estate tax. I ask them how they would convince my parents to vote for the tax, and I play devil’s advocate against them. The room gets decidedly more intense. He and G are ardent, articulate lawyers, and arguing with them is both difficult and fruitless. At one point, I look at Clerk, as he is speaking, passionately and intensely about democracy, and I think, I love this boy.

I announce, and then abandon, plans to bake cookies, and instead decide I should stop and breathe, and for once, do nothing.

I sit next to Clerk on the sofa, and as I get up to start packing, he puts his hand on mine. I sit back down and kiss him on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I feel like you were headed somewhere, and I distracted you.” You have no idea, I think.

I chuckle and say quietly, “Just now, or in general?” but I am glad he does not hear me.