past. tense.
2 November 2005Earlier this year Courtney’s uncles came to town– the kind of guys you can tell have been exactly the same since they were 18 years old, constantly giving each other shit while they tried to stay on their best behavior in the presence of Marie & me. They took us out to listen to jazz and talk about baseball, and to drink. Heavily. That night is the reason I can’t have gin to this day– every time my G&T got to be less than half full, another one showed up. My fingers got pruney from running over the condensation on the glass. We went to the bar at the W in midtown, which was close to their hotel, where other patrons kept congratulating them and not believing that their escorts were relatives and not, well, escorts. They handed courtney money for the rest of the night and packed off to bed, leaving three 23 year olds in a sea of business suits to fend for themselves. Some of us were able to fend better than others.
I told that story last night to the guy I’ve been dating these past months as we walked towards the W after dinner, where I had eaten a shrimp and bacon salad and eavesdropped on the fantasy basketball draft going on at the table next to us. (“If you’re going to fuck around with this, I’m leaving!” declared one earnest Blue Shirt to an apparently less devoted White Shirt who was making light of the sanctity that is Fake Sports). “They just left you here?” he asked about the uncles as he opened the door to the bar.
“Yeah, they totally ditched us,” I replied. “It was hilarious.”
90 minutes later I logged another entry in my book of Life’s Little Ironies as a sense of deja vu crept over me with the accompanying red flush after he finally zeroed in on what he had been conversationally circling in the most ambiguous way possible. Not so great with words, despite being an editor. And not so great with relationships, despite being born in the decade before mine. He was totally ditching me. It was not hilarious.
I patted his leg and said “Okay, I’m going to go,” and wiggled my jacket back on.
If you’re going to fuck around with this, I’m leaving.
“Do you want me to walk you? I’m all settled up…” he trailed off, indicating our bar tab.
I had a flash of what I could have said there– he had told me a dozen times that one of the things he liked best, along with the freckles, was the quick retorts, another permanent accessory you can’t turn off on me, as he realized one weekday morning when I came back to bed to wake him up and he asked if I had already showered. I pushed my hand through my soaked hair and said “No, I’ve been this wet all night.” Not even a little true, for that night or any.
All settled up? Yeah, I bet you fucking are. What a relief to have everything squared away.
I told him I’d talk to him later–also not even a little true– and deleted him from my phone while I was standing on the subway platform. I cried to Jordan, Marie and Courtney in rapid succession, went to bed, wore my favorite skirt today and am now trying to decide what level of purchasing power I’m going to give myself for this fallout. I don’t know if he was a a shoe-level or iPod-level breakup. Remains to be seen. Like always, some of us are able to fend better than others. I know I’ll be fine.
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