Summer and the City

expect.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.

“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.

“No. I-” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”

Help him? What is he talking about? No one told me “help” was part of the program.

Why can’t he just do it?

And there we are, naked. Naked in our skins. But naked mostly in our emotions. I wasn’t prepared for this . The raw, unfortunate intimacy.

“Could you just-?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

I do my best, but it isn’t enough. Then he tries. Then it seems he’s finally ready. He gets on top of me. Okay, let’s go, buddy, I think. He makes a few thrusting motions. He puts his hand down there to help himself.

“Is it supposed to be like this?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“What!” He draws back in shock.

“Don’t be mad at me,” I plead, clinging to his leg as he leaps off the bed. “I never met the right guy before. There has to be a first time for everyone, right?”

“Not with me.” He darts around the room, snatching up my things.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to get dressed.”

“Why?”

He pulls at his hair. “Carrie, you cannot stay here. We cannot do this. I’m not that guy.”

“Why not ?” I ask, my obstinance turning to panic.

“Because I’m not . ” He stops, takes a breath, gets ahold of himself. “I’m an adult. And you’re a kid-”

“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”

“I thought you were a sophomore in college.” More horror.

“Oops,” I say, trying to make a joke of it.

His jaw drops. “Are you insane?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, the last time I checked I seemed to be fairly normal-” Then I lose it. “It’s me, isn’t it? You don’t want me. That’s why you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t get it up. Because-” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize this is just about the worst thing you can say to a guy. Ever. Because I can promise you, he’s none too happy about it himself.

“I can’t do this,” he wails, more to himself than to me. “I cannot do this. What am I doing? What’s happened to my life?”

I try to remember everything I’ve read about impotence. “Maybe I can help you,” I falter. “Maybe we can work on it-”

“I don’t want to have to work on my sex life,” he roars. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have to work on my marriage. I don’t want to have to work on my relationships. I want them to just happen, without effort. And if you weren’t such an asshole all the time, maybe you’d understand.”

What? For a moment, I’m too stung to react. Then I draw back in hurt and indignation. I’m an asshole? Can women even be assholes? I must really be terrible if a man calls me an asshole.

I shut my mouth. I pick up my pants from where he’s dropped them on the bed.

“Carrie,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s probably best if you go.”

“No kidding.”

“And we… probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

“Right.”

“I still want you to have the purse,” he says, trying to make nice.

“I don’t want it.” This, however, is very much a lie. I do want it. Badly. I want to get something out of this debacle of a birthday.

“Take it, please,” he says.

“Give it to Teensie. She’s just like you.” I want to slap him. It’s like one of those dreams where you try to hit a guy and keep missing.

“Don’t be a jerk,” he says. We’re dressed and at the door. “Take it, for Christ’s sake. You know you want it.”

“That’s just gross, Bernard.”

“Here.” He tries to shove the bag into my hands but I yank open the door, hit the elevator button, and cross my arms.

Bernard rides down in the lift with me. “Carrie,” he says, trying not to make a scene in front of the elevator man.

“No.” I shake my head.

He follows me outside and raises his hand to hail a cab. Why is it that whenever you don’t want a taxi, there’s one right there? Because half of me is still hoping this isn’t actually happening, and a miracle will occur and everything will go back to normal. But then Bernard is giving the driver my address and ten dollars to get me home.

I get into the backseat, fuming.

“Here,” he says, offering me the bag again.

“I told you. I don’t want it,” I scream.

And as the cab pulls away from the curb, he yanks open the door and tosses it inside.

The bag lands at my feet. For a moment, I think about throwing it out the window. But I don’t. Because now I’m crying hysterically. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re going to rip me apart.

“Hey,” the taxi driver says. “Are you cryin’? You’re cryin’ in my cab? You want sumpin to cry about, lady, I’ll give you sumpin. How about them Yankees then? How about that goddamned baseball strike?”

Huh?

The cab pulls up in front of Samantha’s building. I stare at it helplessly, unable to move for my tears.

“Hey, lady,” the driver growls. “You gonna get out? I don’t have all night.”

I wipe my eyes as I make one of those rash and ill-advised decisions everyone tells you not to. “Take me to Greenwich Street.”

“But-”

“Greenwich Street.”

I get out at the phone booth on the corner. My fingers are trembling as I search for a dime and drop it into the slot. The phone rings several times. A sleepy voice says, “Yeah?”

“Capote?”

“Yeah?” He yawns.

“It’s me. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Yeah, Carrie. I know your last name.”

“Can I come up?”

“It’s four in the morning.”