This piece is dedicated
to every man that has ever looked me in the eye,
asked “how was your day?”
and meant it.
He couldn’t have been more handsome. Spikey hair, sharp glasses, chiseled jaw; my date had angles that would be a cubist’s dream. However, his features must have been sculpted by the great masters in pale marble with the most deliberate hand. When he smiled at me, my knees pulsed a rhythmic, "I'm not worthy. I'm not worthy" The only motivation I could find to take another step towards him was by accepting the fact that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being this guy's type. But that didn't matter because he was stuck with me. First we were going to eat and then we were going to the theater. This man was completely mine until just past curtain call, which was still hours away.
We hugged me hello so compactly that the fuzz of our cheeks scruffed against each other. When we took our seats, he reached for the wine list and I pushed a candle closer so he didn’t have to strain his eyes. “Feh,” I thought. “Let him get drunk. If his eyes cross, you'll look svelte.” Meanwhile, he was so poised and well-structured. Being with him made me feel as large as a grand prize at a carnival.
I ordered myself a vodka and what-the-fuck-ever to get over it and keep up. After a few sips, I was prepared to dazzle. Frankly, my conversation that evening was epic. I spoke about bullshit with such authority, you would have thought I’d been competing in a middle school mock trial. The more I would coo and cluck, the more the wattage of his smile would flicker and surge. Just knowing that I was the cause of that visage was the definition of a good day. His teeth shined so bright that I could see them glimmer even as he put his hand to his mouth whenever he needed to laugh or chew.
Dinner ended at five minutes to curtain, so we had to make a dash for the theater. We would have never had the problem of dodging the throngs if he hadn’t left his Pegasus at home.
The theater tickets were a favor from a friend that likes to know she helped get me laid, so, naturally, we were spitting distance from the stage. It was one of those evenings in the theater that you enjoy for no real reason besides being in the right place at the right time. That night, I let my nose stay parallel to the floor instead of holding it high in the air.
We had a marvelous time. His hand was on my knee and my palm was on his neck. As the music swelled, we were transfixed by the lights and colors of musical comedy. We swooned when the hunky hero got his glamour girl. I was elated as he clutched at my hand to watch other lovers’ dreams come true. When they lived so happily ever after and the actors bowed, so we stood and smiled and clapped and cheered.
We pushed up the aisle and I tugged his sleeve to lead him through a door that deposited us in a breezy alleyway to the side of the theater. I wrapped his hand in mine and suggested dessert. The night was young and I refused to let him go.
We ducked into some diner on Ninth Avenue that was likely owned by Greeks. It had a display of pies spinning behind glass. I pointed at my selection and signaled for two spoons. The owner pushed us into a small table in the front that was so close to the table next to it, they could have shared a straw.
Still, he stayed connected to me in a strange little world that had an atmosphere made of booze and showtunes. He stared at me from across the table with eyes so direct they almost never focused. It was impossible to tell if he was looking at me, in me or through me.
“Oh, you write?” he asked.
“Sometimes, yeah. I usually keep it pretty quiet. I mean, it’s not like… a blog or anything.”
“Well,” he says, “I would love to read it.”
That was out of the question.
“Maybe one of these days,’ I nodded.
“You know, you can use me in one of your stories if you want. But if you ever make a penny off it, you’re gonna owe me big!”
I knew in that instant that this was not going to work. Requesting to be my subject is like feeding my creativity a curry. Instead of my work coming out nicely formed, I get a spray that I have to scrub up after. You would think his mother would have taught him: to act as a muse, you simply must be.
“I write too,” he motioned.
Dear God, no.
“Actually, I may have something here with me.” Without searching to the count of ten he says, “yeah, I do. It’s a poem. I suppose it’s a little personal.”
He produced a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. I started getting nervous that he was going to want me to read it. Reading in front of people is a lot of pressure. My eyes would be forced to gloss over his words until enough time had passed before I was allowed to look up and nod.
And then he cleared his throat.
“It’s called ‘Grandmother’s Garden’.”
Dear Lord, I’m ready. Please take me now.
I wish I could tell you exactly what happened next, but I think I went into a K-hole. He began to speak in such a booming voice that it was as if he imagined himself a shepherd competing with the bleat of sheep in the distance. He read to me with such emphatic diction that the other patrons started to shift in their seats. The room needed to find a better vantage to simultaneously plant their eyes in the back of my skull, which had already begun to throb. I came in and out of consciousness over the next few stanzas.
His wild gesticulations manipulated the flow of air as I heard in a whoosh:
“Soft flower that I must water,
Now that you’re not here.
My drops of salt will wilt your petals,
But you’ve left us yet to grow.”
It was the most ashamed I had ever felt. He paused triumphantly to wait for praise. I barely had time to finish mumbling my response before he announced that he had a companion piece to read as well.
At that moment, you could have held a gun to my head and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you how many toes there are on my left. He finished reading poem number two and I trembled as I pushed away the plate of pie. For the first time in 6 months, I had lost my appetite.
“Check please.”
Naturally, I was surprised when I offered to walk him to his train. Perhaps it's because I was a lot less of a cunt back then (although doubtful). Maybe there was still time back then for such acts of propriety. Also, being Jewish, it was far better to leave him nothing negative to say about me to strangers despite the fact that I was never going to see him again. And yet, perhaps I offered to walk him to his train because I needed the closure of seeing him encased in a jagged metal can as it screeched toward the center of the Earth.
During our walk to his stop, I made a note to keep my body language tense and disinterested. Sensing that something was wrong, he grabbed my hand to stop me from rushing so far ahead. We were outside of the Snapple Theater. There were giant bottles of iced tea spinning on a billboard several stories above our heads.
That’s when he kissed me. Yes, honestly. If he'd bothered to observe any of the context clues, he would have known I would rather push his face into dirt.
That’s when my body recoiled. I put my hands up like I was catching myself from a fall and I shoved him so hard he had to take a few steps back to regain his balance. Mind you, I'm not enthusiastic about whatever thought process led me to that reaction. But, as far as I am concerned, that kiss was rape. Therefore, he had it coming.
When I looked at him now, something had changed. Our pupils locked like he was trying to eat my thoughts. I finally had his attention.
He ambled down the stairs and faded away beyond the turnstiles. It wasn’t until he faded out of sight that I was able to see him for exactly what he is: a spec among specs, so insignificant that even a Hoover would suck the other way.
Tonight on my walk home from the train, the city had been kissed by rain like it looks in the movies. The sun had set and the humidity had cut. The back of my neck had finally stopped weeping.
As I looked up into the night sky, I fixed my gaze on the only sparkling dot I could see.
“Starlight, Starbright…”
Who knows? It probably wasn’t even a star- it was probably a planet, like Venus, or some shit like that. But I made my wish anyway. Even Venus should know I had fucking earned it.
It smiled back a prophesy:
Lie to yourself until it is true.
You will be loved again,
and more sincerely than ever.
