Here goes.
“I needed a job,” I say. “This doesn’t pay, but I’m hoping it’ll lead to something that will. Something big. Something important. And I don’t have a roommate. I moved to New York because I wanted to live with my boyfriend.” There. I’ve said it. “I live with my boyfriend.”
Her jaw drops and her eyes widen, but then she bursts out laughing. “I don’t believe you!”
A truck-sized weight has been lifted from my chest. Confessing feels good. “I swear,” I say.
Then she smiles. “Howard doesn’t know, does he?”
“No, of course not. They all think I’m single. Everyone but you.”
“You are single. There’s no ring on your finger.”
“I still don’t think Howard would appreciate knowing that I have a live-in boyfriend.”
She laughs. “Definitely not. It’s like his one rule. I love it. It’s so devious. How long have you been together?”
Devious. I picture myself tattooed, in leather and on the back of a motorcycle. “Eleven months on Monday.”
“You count the months? Adorable. Are you celebrating?”
“I’m going to try to make him a fancy dinner on Monday.”
“You cook?”
“No, but it’s the effort that counts, right? He cooks. Have you ever heard of the restaurant Manna?”
“Your boyfriend is a waiter?” she asks, surprised.
“He’s not a waiter,” I say, correcting her. “He owns the restaurant.”
A waitress walking by gives me an evil look. I think I deserved that.
“Now that you know the truth, can I borrow your cell phone to call him? Mine doesn’t seem to be working in New York. I need to get a new plan.”
She hands me her phone. “Of course.”
I tell Steve I’ll be home in an hour. I can hear Hot ’n Sexy in the background.
I press the end button. The phone rings in my hand.
“Oops, did I dial something?” I hold the phone up in front of me. The display says: Howard Brown.
I flip the phone toward her. “Howard’s calling you now? At four in the morning?”
She looks flustered, and giggles. “I—he calls me all the time. He’s such a sketch-ball. He’s like my stalker or something.” She looks down at her plate.
The phone rings again. Howard Brown.
“Crazy, huh? He won’t leave me alone.” The phone rings again and then goes silent. “He totally attacked me a few weeks ago.”
Oh, my. “What do you mean? Sexually? That’s serious, Miche.” I flashback to the scene in the shower.
“He didn’t molest me or anything.” She laughs nervously. “He’s just always there, touching me and asking me if I want to fool around. Honestly, he asks me like once an hour. Hilarious, huh?”
“So nothing ever happened?”
At first she shakes her head, then she nods. “We made out once. But that’s before I knew he was married, I swear.”
I take another bite of lettuce and dribble balsamic vinegar all over my skirt. “Ew.” Hasn’t this skirt seen enough pain?
“What, you think he’s gross?”
I dip my napkin into my glass of water and dab it on my skirt. “I was referring to my skirt. I still can’t believe what happened. It’s a good thing that we’re not wearing mikes. We’re a tabloid reporter’s wet dream.”
When I get home, Steve is sleeping, sprawled across the couch. The TV is on.
“Hey, sexy,” I say, and crouch down in front of him.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I’m sorry. I was starving.”
“I thought you’d be. I brought you dinner from the restaurant.”
Oops. “Next week I’ll come home right after the show, okay? Let’s go to bed.”
Every woman should be so lucky to have someone who loves her and waits up until 5:00 a.m. for her to come home.
“Okay.” He kisses me, then closes his eyes. “Hon?” His eyes flicker open. “It’s good here. Come lie. It’s comfy.”
What am I going to do with him? “The bed is also comfortable.”
“Stay here. Like camping. Come.”
Whatever makes him happy. “One sec.” I close the blinds, throw out my skirt, put on pajamas and a maxi pad, climb onto the couch beside him and try to fall asleep under his arm.
I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about what I said to Michelle. About being remembered. Even if I do something incredible, like finding a cure for cancer, I’ll be remembered until, what, 2100, 2200 at the latest? Big deal. Really, in the bucket of time, what is that really?
Okay, we remember, say, Shakespeare. But what if it’s true? What if there was no such man? What if Marlowe really wrote all those plays, after all? Who wrote the bible? We don’t remember the creator; we barely remember the creations.
I’m not even a tiny blip on the radar. No matter what I do. Even if I’m president or something. All of modern American culture will be forgotten by then. Elvis, the Kennedys, Twin Towers. By 4000 nothing will be remembered. And then one day the world will have to end, won’t it? Nothing goes on forever. We’ll blow ourselves up with nuclear weapons or global warming or maybe an asteroid will strike us right into oblivion, and then there will be nothing, just blackness and emptiness and what’s the point?
My heart is beating hard in my chest and I need to get into my bed. I need to be under the covers and safe, but Steve looks so peaceful and I don’t want to wake him. I wish I could turn on the TV or turn on the light to read. I need to think about something else. Something mindless.
My eyes sting and I let the tears roll off the side of my face, onto the couch.
Between the cracks in the blinds I watch the sunlight slowly dilute the starless New York sky.
Finally, when the living room is flooded with light, my eyelids feel heavy and I close them, gently, falling asleep.
Steve and I are cuddled on the bed watching Party Girls when the unthinkable happens:
Sunny Lang, TV heroine and star, stands up, wraps Michelle’s sweater around her waist and starts walking to the bathroom.
Erin’s voice is dubbed over the image. “Sunny got her period at the bar. It went right through her skirt. What’s up with that? Has she never gotten her period before? Is she twelve? Does she not know what a pad is?”
Ohmigod.
Switch.
Image of me and Michelle dancing. The conversation playing has nothing to do with dancing:
Michelle: “Ohmigod.” Laughter.
Me: “Do you think I should write to some teen magazine? This has to go in one of those It Happened to Me columns.” More laughter. “What am I going to do? I can’t wear a cardigan for the rest of the night. I’m supposed to be trendy.”
Michelle: “First of all, take this. Ooh. I have an idea. Take off your skirt.”
Me: “I can’t, I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
Michelle: “Hmm. Okay, pull it up then.”
Me: “How high?”
Michelle: “So that the stain part is above your waist. How do you feel about knee-length? I hope this doesn’t unravel. Here you go. New and untarnished. It’s adorable.”
Me: “It’s too big. How can I make it stay up?”
Michelle: “Voila!”
Me: “I have to admit, Betsey Johnson, I’m impressed.”
Michelle: “Ready to go back out there?”