the end
10 December 2005
My college girlfriends, R and M, are in town, and I want them to meet NG, even though I shouldn’t. At a crowded, festive bar on the Lower East Side, T (R’s boyfriend) tries to cheer me up. Drunkenly, he tells me about his ex-girlfriend, who broke his heart, for whom he never felt good enough. He explains that if that relationship hadn’t ended, he never would have met R, who is smart, well traveled, beautiful, fun. He tries and tries. I understand the parallel, but I still start to cry.
NG arrives. By then, I have stopped crying and kept drinking. I have already had several glasses of wine and a few bottles of cider, and I am affectionate, laughing. When I get up to refill our drinks, I scan the room, pausing to look at some men at the bar. Abruptly, R and T announce that they are going home, and then M, NG and I are left sitting at our tiny table. We take a cab to a karaoke bar, where people are shouting along loudly, drunkenly. After they play the last song, we bundle up and try to flag a cab. One stops immediately, and I tell NG, “I would invite you over, but it’s a full house.” He looks sad. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I jump in the taxi behind M, and as I slam the door behind us, the cab takes off. “Oh!” M exclaims. “I thought he was coming with us. I didn’t say goodbye!”
“Yeah, well…” I trail off.
The next day, I leave NG a message, apologetically inviting him to dim sum. He doesn’t call back, and I feel a little worried. When I do hear from him, I am relieved not to have angered him, or still to have his attention. I invite him over for dinner.
Later that night, NG checks his email while I am stirring the chili, thick with tender chunks of vegetables, spicy with smoky chipotle peppers. He keeps trying to get me to listen to some sound byte or watch some clip, while I am doing cooking or cleaning. He watches the same shows over and over.
He comes over to the kitchen, and after a moment, he pulls me towards him, and kisses me. For a moment, it feels good, strong, right.
We share a bottle of malbec that I had brought back from Argentina. The conversation, as always, centers around me: what I should do, how I hate work, how I feel unsuccessful, unhappy, unworthy.
We move over to the couch, and NG takes out his guitar.
“Why did you bring that?” I ask.
“I thought I’d play you something,” he says.
I smile, and turn back to the paper. He strums the guitar as I read, and then after several minutes, I look up. “I thought you were going to play something for me,” I tease.
“I did,” he says.
“Oh.”
He motions for me to move over, patting the sofa seat next to him. I sit down on his right, and then pick up the paper again. He kisses me, and I put down the paper, but then pull away. He asks a couple times, “What’s wrong?” ,
“Nothing,” I say, and look away.
He moves my hand near his belt buckle, and I squirm away. The third or fourth time, he stops kissing me. “What?” he asks, confused. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Maybe…” I hesitate, “maybe we can just kiss.”
“Really?” he asks, in disbelief.
“Well…yeah…”
He exhales, frustrated, angry. “Are you kidding?”
Somehow, I think this is funny, and giggle a little.
“I don’t see what’s so funny!” he retorts.
I am surprised and sobered by his anger.
We then have an odd, slightly tipsy conversation: But we do other couple things. I know, but I just don’t…Well, you seemed fine with it before…I know, but I’m just not…Why would you ask me to stay over? You expect me to just lie there and not touch you? Well…
He gets up suddenly, angrily, to leave.
“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I say, “can I call you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, weary.
“Well, how will I know?” I say.
“Well, I’ll call you,” he says, turning away, walking down the stairs.
My college girlfriends, R and M, are in town, and I want them to meet NG, even though I shouldn’t. At a crowded, festive bar on the Lower East Side, T (R’s boyfriend) tries to cheer me up. Drunkenly, he tells me about his ex-girlfriend, who broke his heart, for whom he never felt good enough. He explains that if that relationship hadn’t ended, he never would have met R, who is smart, well traveled, beautiful, fun. He tries and tries. I understand the parallel, but I still start to cry.
NG arrives. By then, I have stopped crying and kept drinking. I have already had several glasses of wine and a few bottles of cider, and I am affectionate, laughing. When I get up to refill our drinks, I scan the room, pausing to look at some men at the bar. Abruptly, R and T announce that they are going home, and then M, NG and I are left sitting at our tiny table. We take a cab to a karaoke bar, where people are shouting along loudly, drunkenly. After they play the last song, we bundle up and try to flag a cab. One stops immediately, and I tell NG, “I would invite you over, but it’s a full house.” He looks sad. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I jump in the taxi behind M, and as I slam the door behind us, the cab takes off. “Oh!” M exclaims. “I thought he was coming with us. I didn’t say goodbye!”
“Yeah, well…” I trail off.
The next day, I leave NG a message, apologetically inviting him to dim sum. He doesn’t call back, and I feel a little worried. When I do hear from him, I am relieved not to have angered him, or still to have his attention. I invite him over for dinner.
Later that night, NG checks his email while I am stirring the chili, thick with tender chunks of vegetables, spicy with smoky chipotle peppers. He keeps trying to get me to listen to some sound byte or watch some clip, while I am doing cooking or cleaning. He watches the same shows over and over.
He comes over to the kitchen, and after a moment, he pulls me towards him, and kisses me. For a moment, it feels good, strong, right.
We share a bottle of malbec that I had brought back from Argentina. The conversation, as always, centers around me: what I should do, how I hate work, how I feel unsuccessful, unhappy, unworthy.
We move over to the couch, and NG takes out his guitar.
“Why did you bring that?” I ask.
“I thought I’d play you something,” he says.
I smile, and turn back to the paper. He strums the guitar as I read, and then after several minutes, I look up. “I thought you were going to play something for me,” I tease.
“I did,” he says.
“Oh.”
He motions for me to move over, patting the sofa seat next to him. I sit down on his right, and then pick up the paper again. He kisses me, and I put down the paper, but then pull away. He asks a couple times, “What’s wrong?” ,
“Nothing,” I say, and look away.
He moves my hand near his belt buckle, and I squirm away. The third or fourth time, he stops kissing me. “What?” he asks, confused. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Maybe…” I hesitate, “maybe we can just kiss.”
“Really?” he asks, in disbelief.
“Well…yeah…”
He exhales, frustrated, angry. “Are you kidding?”
Somehow, I think this is funny, and giggle a little.
“I don’t see what’s so funny!” he retorts.
I am surprised and sobered by his anger.
We then have an odd, slightly tipsy conversation: But we do other couple things. I know, but I just don’t…Well, you seemed fine with it before…I know, but I’m just not…Why would you ask me to stay over? You expect me to just lie there and not touch you? Well…
He gets up suddenly, angrily, to leave.
“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I say, “can I call you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, weary.
“Well, how will I know?” I say.
“Well, I’ll call you,” he says, turning away, walking down the stairs.
posted 7:47 PM
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