another weekend
Friday
My last day on the project. Thank God.
My coworker, S, is in town from Atlanta, so he and I go to the office happy hour at 6 to start the weekend off right. We have a couple beers, and then head home, where we finish off the wine I opened last night.
Later, I meet Nice Guy for dinner with EB and his wife. The conversation is easy, but not necessarily fun, in the way that conversations with Clerk were. Three of us share a bottle of chianti, and I am drinking mine like it's grape juice. After dinner, NG takes my hand under the table. His hand is a little cold.
The four of us go to a nearby bar, where the DJ is playing oddly un-danceable eighties tunes. We order more drinks. And then more. Occasionally, NG and I get up to dance. I can't remember what we talked about, except that I told NG, "You don't want to get involved with me. I'm bad news."
He pshaws and kisses me. (Only, really, whoever actually makes the "pshaw" sound?)
We end up in Brooklyn. We took a cab. I think.
Saturday
I am hungover. Exhausted. Irritated. I am naked under his comforter, but my entire right leg and arm are exposed. He stands up and grabs his camera. "Can I take that picture now?"
"Nooooooooo," I whine, and cover myself. NG wants to play, and I push him away, matter-of-factly. "I have to drop off my laundry. Don't you have to go?" I ask.
Back at home, I crawl under the covers. Three hours later, I wake up, amazed at how long I have slept. It is, perhaps, the first real sleep I have had in weeks.
On a whim, I send NG a text message: "Lunch?"
I arrange to meet him in midtown. He stands, slightly hunched, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps on his shoulders. Before I can stop myself, the words form in my head: I wish he would stand up straight so that he looked taller.
We walk over to his friends, a group of women- two of his female friends from grad school, and an older woman, who seems to be one of their mothers. One, EM, is a tall, fierce, redhead. She says, "We thought we'd get sandwiches and go sit in the park."
"Uh, that's fine," I lie.
We have a slightly awkward lunch in the park, as first lunches with friends always are. EM says, "So I heard you've been working a lot."
I wonder what else she has heard about me.
Later that afternoon, I meet S, his wife, SA, and their classmate G, in Central Park. G's relationship has also just ended, and we commiserate about our unhappy situations.
"I'm just looking for the male version of me," I say. "He doesn't have to be a rock star, or gorgeous, or have won the Nobel Prize. Just the male version of me." G asks, "Well, so what is it that's missing, from the guys you date?"
"Well, none of them is Clerk," I say.
I look away, to keep from crying.
Later that night, our dinner group has shrunk from 8 to 5, and suddenly it is just me and two couples: S and his wife, and their friends, A and L. A is dashingly handsome, and L is tall, sweet, and gorgeous. S asks, "So what have you been up to?"
A looks fondly at L, and announces modestly, "Well, our big news is that we just moved in together." L smiles back.
I order another martini.
We walk to another club, where we meet S's friend W, a tall, intense Asian woman I met two months ago, when Clerk had come to New York. When the music slows down, we sit down and talk.
"What's your boyfriend's name, again?" W yells over the music.
"Oh, uh, we broke up," I mutter.
"Oh. I'm sorry," she says, frowning. "Was the distance too much?"
"He wasn't in love with me."
“Were you in love with him?” she asks.
I look her in the eye. “Absolutely.”
A few minutes later, the music hasn't improved, and I have finished my drink. I am staring into a candle, and suddenly, without warning, I know I have to leave. I loopleadingly at SA, and she wrinkles her nose sympathetically. "Are you going?" As I nod yes, the tears escape and start streaming down my face. I push through the crowd, and I see people staring at me. A few clusters of people are already competing for taxis, so I give up and start to walk up 6th Avenue.
I cry, all the way home.
Sunday
I emerge from the Subway at 125th and Lexington and start walking southeast. At 120th and 5th, a small crowd dances and cheers to loud, festive music from the Caribbean band on stage, and exhausted, haggard runners limp around the corner, now at mile 22.
The New York Marathon. I’m glad Clerk didn’t get in.
As I walk, I begin to hear strains of "Eye of the Tiger." I see the band sitting on the street corner, and I can’t stop giggling as I stand behind a long, metal police fence watching. I see Nice Guy playing the clarinet, surrounded by high school students. For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving.
The band stops playing, and Nice Guy spots me across the street. I walk in front of some joggers, and stand by the side. The teacher spots me and waves me over to the flute section. I giggle nervously and sit down at the end of the row.
I assemble my flute, and blow warm air through it. It’s been a long time. For the first song, there is only one copy of music, so I have to squint across three people to see the tiny notes. I can barely see them, and I can’t really play the tune by ear, and I feel slightly embarrassed, wondering whether the woman next to me can tell, or worse, whether Nice Guy, from the clarinet section, can see my discomfort. Eventually, though, we play easier, more familiar tunes (the "Rocky" theme and “La Bamba”) and I can play along.
Afterwards, we stand around, and say good-bye, before heading downtown.
At my apartment, S and SA, are hanging out. I introduce them to Nice Guy, and am relieved when S laughs at one of NG's jokes. We eat some of the apple pie I baked earlier, and when we finish, Nice Guy stands up and clears the plates.
Of course, I think.
My last day on the project. Thank God.
My coworker, S, is in town from Atlanta, so he and I go to the office happy hour at 6 to start the weekend off right. We have a couple beers, and then head home, where we finish off the wine I opened last night.
Later, I meet Nice Guy for dinner with EB and his wife. The conversation is easy, but not necessarily fun, in the way that conversations with Clerk were. Three of us share a bottle of chianti, and I am drinking mine like it's grape juice. After dinner, NG takes my hand under the table. His hand is a little cold.
The four of us go to a nearby bar, where the DJ is playing oddly un-danceable eighties tunes. We order more drinks. And then more. Occasionally, NG and I get up to dance. I can't remember what we talked about, except that I told NG, "You don't want to get involved with me. I'm bad news."
He pshaws and kisses me. (Only, really, whoever actually makes the "pshaw" sound?)
We end up in Brooklyn. We took a cab. I think.
Saturday
I am hungover. Exhausted. Irritated. I am naked under his comforter, but my entire right leg and arm are exposed. He stands up and grabs his camera. "Can I take that picture now?"
"Nooooooooo," I whine, and cover myself. NG wants to play, and I push him away, matter-of-factly. "I have to drop off my laundry. Don't you have to go?" I ask.
Back at home, I crawl under the covers. Three hours later, I wake up, amazed at how long I have slept. It is, perhaps, the first real sleep I have had in weeks.
On a whim, I send NG a text message: "Lunch?"
I arrange to meet him in midtown. He stands, slightly hunched, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps on his shoulders. Before I can stop myself, the words form in my head: I wish he would stand up straight so that he looked taller.
We walk over to his friends, a group of women- two of his female friends from grad school, and an older woman, who seems to be one of their mothers. One, EM, is a tall, fierce, redhead. She says, "We thought we'd get sandwiches and go sit in the park."
"Uh, that's fine," I lie.
We have a slightly awkward lunch in the park, as first lunches with friends always are. EM says, "So I heard you've been working a lot."
I wonder what else she has heard about me.
Later that afternoon, I meet S, his wife, SA, and their classmate G, in Central Park. G's relationship has also just ended, and we commiserate about our unhappy situations.
"I'm just looking for the male version of me," I say. "He doesn't have to be a rock star, or gorgeous, or have won the Nobel Prize. Just the male version of me." G asks, "Well, so what is it that's missing, from the guys you date?"
"Well, none of them is Clerk," I say.
I look away, to keep from crying.
Later that night, our dinner group has shrunk from 8 to 5, and suddenly it is just me and two couples: S and his wife, and their friends, A and L. A is dashingly handsome, and L is tall, sweet, and gorgeous. S asks, "So what have you been up to?"
A looks fondly at L, and announces modestly, "Well, our big news is that we just moved in together." L smiles back.
I order another martini.
We walk to another club, where we meet S's friend W, a tall, intense Asian woman I met two months ago, when Clerk had come to New York. When the music slows down, we sit down and talk.
"What's your boyfriend's name, again?" W yells over the music.
"Oh, uh, we broke up," I mutter.
"Oh. I'm sorry," she says, frowning. "Was the distance too much?"
"He wasn't in love with me."
“Were you in love with him?” she asks.
I look her in the eye. “Absolutely.”
A few minutes later, the music hasn't improved, and I have finished my drink. I am staring into a candle, and suddenly, without warning, I know I have to leave. I loopleadingly at SA, and she wrinkles her nose sympathetically. "Are you going?" As I nod yes, the tears escape and start streaming down my face. I push through the crowd, and I see people staring at me. A few clusters of people are already competing for taxis, so I give up and start to walk up 6th Avenue.
I cry, all the way home.
Sunday
I emerge from the Subway at 125th and Lexington and start walking southeast. At 120th and 5th, a small crowd dances and cheers to loud, festive music from the Caribbean band on stage, and exhausted, haggard runners limp around the corner, now at mile 22.
The New York Marathon. I’m glad Clerk didn’t get in.
As I walk, I begin to hear strains of "Eye of the Tiger." I see the band sitting on the street corner, and I can’t stop giggling as I stand behind a long, metal police fence watching. I see Nice Guy playing the clarinet, surrounded by high school students. For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving.
The band stops playing, and Nice Guy spots me across the street. I walk in front of some joggers, and stand by the side. The teacher spots me and waves me over to the flute section. I giggle nervously and sit down at the end of the row.
I assemble my flute, and blow warm air through it. It’s been a long time. For the first song, there is only one copy of music, so I have to squint across three people to see the tiny notes. I can barely see them, and I can’t really play the tune by ear, and I feel slightly embarrassed, wondering whether the woman next to me can tell, or worse, whether Nice Guy, from the clarinet section, can see my discomfort. Eventually, though, we play easier, more familiar tunes (the "Rocky" theme and “La Bamba”) and I can play along.
Afterwards, we stand around, and say good-bye, before heading downtown.
At my apartment, S and SA, are hanging out. I introduce them to Nice Guy, and am relieved when S laughs at one of NG's jokes. We eat some of the apple pie I baked earlier, and when we finish, Nice Guy stands up and clears the plates.
Of course, I think.
posted 8:31 PM
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