—Perhaps, Alice said, you were expecting Sorry I was short on Friday, my wife was holding our baby in my face so I couldn’t write you a long note. I missed you very much.
—Yes, I said, that must be exactly what I was expecting. Nothing came. I started waiting thirty minutes in between check-ins to increase the likelihood of a reply. I imagined even my phone was through with me. It hungered for a more self-assured owner. Monday came. The air turned cooler and I felt calmer.
—Let me guess, Alice said.
I nodded.
—It’s measurable by science, she said. A man will know the very moment you have stopped obsessing. The instant.
—An email popped up, I continued. His name. Come by Harry’s for a drink later? I felt dizzy and at first not even grateful. My throat was dried out. How could I have felt so strongly so quickly? One of my friends turned every one-night stand into the love of her life. But not me. I had never met a man like this one. I love you, I said to my phone. Holy shit, I love you.
Alice was pitched forward in her seat. It felt good that someone understood the passion, that it was possible to feel strongly about a man after only one and a half meetings.
—I didn’t reply to him for three hours. I showered and blew out my hair and applied an eye mask. Finally, at five, I wrote, Sure. I’ll come by. Great, he wrote right away. I’m walking down there now.
—Good for you for waiting so long. But isn’t it terrible? This is how we applaud ourselves. I bet you wanted to hit him and fuck him at the same time. What did you wear?
—A long-sleeved floral dress that came to the middle of my thighs and cowboy boots. I looked like a farmer’s slutty daughter.
She smiled and shook her head.
—Please, I said. I know.
—Sorry. Continue.
—He was already seated, two martinis deep, with the same blond friend. Martini Monday, someone said, and glasses clinked. He looked at me.
—You look like you’re going to cry.
—The bartender said, Well, hello, missy, and Big Sky smiled. His friend left after a hello and a few last sips. I’m always impressed that men know when to leave.
—Do you think they discussed it beforehand?
—I don’t think so, no.
—God, this is sexy.
—Then we were alone. We looked at each other for several seconds. I saw him look at my legs and relished the feeling of power. And then he said, I thought of you all weekend.
—God bless him.
—He’d been at his family’s home in the Catskills. In the basement he’d slipped a movie in the player, one he’d told me to watch, and he thought of me. He was building a fire, he said, and he thought of me. He was chopping down firewood and he thought of me. And you, he said, are such a BITCH. And he jabbed me lightly in the chest, right between my breasts, but politely. Because I didn’t email him back right away.
—What a cocksucker!
—And there I was, I said, thinking of the long weekend I’d spent, the tap-tap-taps into my phone. How I’d done thirty walking lunges back and forth across my apartment floor, thinking that by the thirtieth one, he’d have responded to me. He reached for a greasy jar of bar cherries and said, I should be giving you one of these at a time. Instead here I am, passing you the whole goddamn jar at once.
—Was he drunk?
—Yes, but not like an asshole.
She said she understood exactly what I meant and what type of man he was. I went inside and brought out two more beers. I would have to replenish the register later. It was an hour of work I’d be paying back to the place, but I didn’t care. When I returned, she was leaning back in her chair. Her pose—shut but sun-searching eyes, long golden neck—belonged on a yacht.
—Thank you, she said, taking the beer. Please, get back to the story. Bated breath over here.
—We kissed, I said, right there in the bar he went to all the time. The bartender was down at the other end. I leaned in to him, put my hands on his thighs lightly. He left a hundred-dollar bill on a forty-dollar check. I hated myself for being impressed. We walked outside and he threw me up against a brick wall and I swung my legs around his waist and we kissed some more. On the way back to my place, a car honked as we crossed Broadway. We laughed at the car as it flew by, knowing whoever was in it was less excited to be alive. We were holding hands and I felt high. I thought, I’ll always remember how beautiful a moment this is. I will always be grateful for this.
—And are you?
I smiled and shook my head. I wanted to cry, remembering.
—He sounds like a fucker. I love fuckers, too. Tell me the rest. I need another cigarette.
—In my apartment we went down on each other. We were all over each other. We kissed like animals. We knocked into my stupid liquor shelf and it wobbled and in particular I noticed the Rémy Martin on the shelf. It had belonged to my parents and I never touched it or let anyone else touch it. But in the near future, I would let him drink it. We didn’t fuck, he only went down on me, and I faked an orgasm because I was in love. Afterward, we were practicing
