he talks quietly on the phone, this late at night. his voice is always scratchy from cigarettes and whiskey. she know he’s in bed because she can hear his beard rustling against the pillow.
“tell me more about the Weekend,” he asks. how many times have they talked about this, she wonders. but the stories and promises have, so far, kept them happy together with seven thousand miles separating them.
“we’ll lock the door,” she starts.
“mmhmm.”
“and kick my roommate out for the weekend.”
“we’ll just have a couple delivery menus and some beer.”
“and sex,” she adds.
he laughs – his voice always goes up an octave with his laughter.
“and sex,” he says. “lots of sex.”
“eleven months worth of sex.”
“it’s been that long?” he asks.
“it will have been, when you come home.”
“jesus,” his voice sounding sad, “that’s too long.”
“well,” she reminds him, “when you left, it was supposed to be forever.”
“when I left, I didn’t realize how terrible it really is to be alone.”
her mind snags on this, still disbelieving his affection, still unsure that he could possibly mean the wealth of caring and faith he’s shown. she probes, knowing any minute it could go too far, she could ask too much, and his openness would dissipate like tendrils of steam.
“well, and now?”
“I don’t want to be alone any more. I’m tired of the hermit act. I want to be there for someone. and I think I want it to be you.”
“and our weekend of sex,” she jokes, bringing it back to the light side, knowing his boundaries.
“and our weekend of sex,” he replies, with smiles in his voice. “we can just stay in bed the entire time.”
“no internet,” she says.
“no phones.”
“no friends,” she says.
“no television.”
“just food,” she laughs.
“and sex. and cigarettes.”
“and the ny times.” she says.
“nah, the paper is distracting,” he points out, “from all the sex. how about just NPR. you have a radio in your room, right?”
“yeah.”
“it’ll be perfect. and can we be naked the entire time?”
she pulls a drag from her cigarette, and closes her eyes, gathering memories of their last few nights together, before he left. when it all came tumbling out in the desperate flood of goodbye. the way he first kissed her on the couch, electric. how he resisted her body out of confusion – awkwardness – and then pulled her in to him, him endearingly wild-eyed, and sank into their first time together. the way his legs entwined with hers when they finally slept, his furrowed brow in the morning, his arm stubbornly locked around her waist, hand on her belly.
she breathes out smoke, hearing his mouth take a drag of his cigarette.
“of course we can. it’s our lost weekend. we can do whatever we want,” she replies.
“yeah. I can’t wait,” he smiles.
he sits across from her at the tiny sun-dappled table but his legs are long and they sneak under her chair. for her part, legs are crossed, her ankle bone resting lightly against his shin. the only contact. the coffee mugs before them have been drained, but periodically she picks up hers, tipping it back to lick some of the sugar from the sides. he watches her pink tongue flick into the mug.
“so how’s old new york these days?” he asks. his long arms stretch out across the table, his chin tips up and his back arches the slightest bit – a habit of his she is well familiar with, something he never realizes he’s doing, as if refocusing himself into the room.
“the same as it was when you lived there. it’s good to get away,” she smiles, tapping a cigarette out of the pack, leaning in and shoving a curl away from her face as she lights it on the little red candle. she’s inches away from his hand, palm-down on the table. he almost lifts it to hold her hair, she sees, and he thinks better of it.
“take those ridiculous sunglasses off, we’re indoors,” he says. she pushes them to hold back the curls and smiles at him.
“it’s sunny in here,” her eyes scan the little cafe. she takes a long drag and curls the right side of her lips, letting the smoke out towards the open window. he almost regrets asking her to lift the shades, now being subjected to the full force of her liquid brown eyes. the first thing he really noticed about her, years back.
“remember,” he starts, picking up the thread of the little game they play when they meet again, once a year like clockwork, “the time in your hallway?” she grins a cheeky smile back.
“it was before we went to that salsa club,” she prompts.
“you were wearing that red thing, with the strap around the neck.”
“the halter dress. and heels. and nothing else.”
“right. and that nook, in your hallway-”
“you broke the mirror hanging there,” she laughs. he’s glad she still doesn’t care, after all these years, about the mirror they broke.
“well, you had your legs wrapped around my waist, I didn’t have the best balance,” he countered.
“you held on just fine,” she grins, remembering the strong way his hand always cradled the back of her neck.
“and you pulled my belt out of my pants, remember?” he asks.
“yeah, well, you undid the only hook holding my dress on.”
“that was something else, that nook in the hallway. you almost tied me to the coat rack with my belt.”
“it would have been fun. then I could have done whatever I wanted,” she laughs again and his eyes narrow through his glasses, just once, like a bird flying past a sunbeam.
“to be fair, we shouldn’t talk like this,” he says, his eyes less searching and open than before. his hands pull back off the table, his chin tilts up again, the shift is all but physically tangible.
“I know. they’re just memories.”
“and you’re the keeper of them.”
she doesn’t answer.
“but I’ve got the car, it’s outside,” he smiles at the thought of her hair flying in the wind, zipping around the city’s tiny streets again in that car – she was always terrible with the stick – “and we can stay at our old place.”
it’s nice, she thinks, looking at his long lazy body and rumpled clothes, these once a year reminders. the red dress is gone, the nook in the hallway long occupied by someone else, someone undoubtedly less passionate and crazy. but the car, and the time of year in their city, and the cobblestones gleaming with fresh rain -
“let’s go, then.” he sees the playful flicker her delicious eyes once more before the sunglasses come down and the cigarette is extinguished. outside, the car is waiting.
you’ve got a sentimental side as big as kansas
that’s what a particularly unsentimental boyfriend once told me. granted, i’m sure at the time he appreciated it, since it was largely directed at him. but i’ve definitely been taken to task for my soppy hallmark side before.
i know i often show myself to be this urbane, witty, sometimes even callous city girl. but we all know how blogs can be selectively decieving. my real friends will tell you … i cry at the drop of a hat and always have. in fact, i’ve only been through one breakup in my entire life where i didn’t cry. when i was younger, my father called it “theatrics”, which i found the height of insulting and unfeeling, seeing as how not only was i incapable of faking the tears, i couldn’t have stopped them if i tried.
when i get really sad, i start to feel the prickle and it’s a gradual process to full-out sobbing. but when i’m angry, they simply well up and fall out of my eyes, splashing on my red angry cheeks. i don’t sob when i’m furious. i’m too angry yelling or cursing or attacking. incidentally, these baby browns turn a fierce hazel when i’m crying.
but the most common variety of tears these days are the soppily sentimental kind. in order to disprove any whispers that i’m constantly fierce, detached, and slashingly funny, i present:
the top ten things that have made OR will make me cry almost unstobbably
10. international travel customs lines, particularly in third world countries, particularly since i started smoking.
9. charlotte’s web. every time.
8. children in pain.
7. almost any dad-and-daughter commercial. really. seriously. i cry like a baby.
6. the time my lifelong companion teddy bear, bow bear, came out of the dryer without his eyes. i screamed until my mother came and pinched the hysteria out of me. his eyes had simply migrated to the back of his head. I WAS SIXTEEN. corrollary incident: when i forgot bow bear at home and had to travel for the first time without him. I WAS TWENTY.
5. when any of my friends cry. when my mom cries.
4. judy collins’ open the door.
3. billy joel’s vienna.
2. being thanked for almost anything. getting flowers.
but the number one thing that makes me cry without fail is …
1. everytime shiv sings her ballad about leaving new york – “right mistake”. for those of you who have read His Dark Materials [the pullman trilogy], i can imagine what lyra felt like when pan was separated from her. maybe new york is my daemon.
so … if you ever think, “perhaps i’m not emotional enough” or “my therapist tells me i should cry more”, just remember: somewhere in the world, i’m probably crying enough for the two of us.
smokin’ hot money
who says being a consummate smoker doesn’t eventually pay off? well, doctors, but let’s ignore that for a minute. i just got recruited, outside my building, for a smokers focus group, convening next week. i suppose i’ll tell them how i smoke in the face of adversity, how i can no longer legitimately criticize the massive tobacco industry, how i laugh in the face of disease…
all to the charming tune of $150. tell that to my blackening lungs.
bienvenue, mes chouettes! le bakery is truly living up to its name today, featuring a delightfully lazy gaulic attitude, a penchant for cigarettes and coffee, and every delicious french pastry you can imagine. being unable to fly to paris for the weekend and pass langorous afternoons with a bottle of wine, a baguette, and whichever tomas, richard, or henri is available, i’ve brought a little france home.
*le ding* so many of you, all at once! come in, rid yourselves of scarves and troublesome coats, my souschef le biscuit will show you where to put them. we’ve made absolutely tons of fresh croissants, some avec fromage et some avec chocolat suisse! take your pick, le gopi, the mysterious janna, and le devlyn. sit over there with le tcwh and le D, who’s having his with lovers almonds. is that le gordon i see? well, he can have two pain au chocolat, since he came all the way from england.
and yes, mes amis, there’s a large pitcher of orangina right here on the counter. we’d never let you eat your delicious homemade croissant-y treats without some artificial orange drink! that’s for you, neil, and here’s your pralines creole. still shy, eh?
ahh, look here, the real francophiles. le kate, plain refusing pastry, drinks her espresso and smokes her les missiles!cigarettes with the appropriate amount of intellectual disdain on her pretty face. she’s chatting up my dear le matthieu, who’s a man after my own apple-loving heart, eating a chausson aux pommes, drinking cafe au lait and smoking a cigarette at the same time. who’s that sour puss over there? ahhh, le jason, who mocks our moon-language, but nonetheless is more than happy with my delicious chocolat chaud.
look! a couple of tarts! no, really. le tammi is enjoying our special tarte aux fraises while le stephanie wholeheartedly “bahh, ouai!”s my tarte meringue au citron. le daniella, on the other hand, is enjoying a different kind of tarty lad … some petits financiers. she really can’t help but giggle.
but who’s that dashing redhead with the pealing laughter? a perfect creme brulee brings the sparkle to our le shivette‘s eyes. and while the valiant brendan rifles through the pastry cabinet for the ultimate dessert, la femme francaise, i’ll sit down right here with le mark and steal a few of his perfect, delicious, sugar-dappled petit madeleines. and a cigarette.
salut!
zut alors!
the theme for tomorrow’s le bakery is toutes les choses francaises [all things french!], thanks to d’s charmingly french post.
mesdames, messieurs, a votre service … le bakery!
letter to the editor
i, like many brave americans, have been recently afflicted with “the worm”. the email kind. a dear stranger, “sean”, decided to alert me of his own opinion regarding, apparently, this worm. i print his charming missive in full:
THANKS FOR THE VIRUS ATTEMPT JACK ASS. CLEAN YOUR ACT
UP BITCH. YOU BETTER HOPE I DON’T KNOW YOU
PERSONALLY…CAUSE I’D LOVE TO KNOCK YOUR FUCKING HEAD
OFF…AND THEN SHOOT YOUR ASS YOU FICKIN PIECE OF
USELESS SKIN!!!!!!!
dear “sean”:
we appreciate your concern that we’ve somehow transmitted a virus to your computer. since your whereabouts are unknown, we cannot dispatch our “thank you messenger” with the “token bouquet of flowers” and our “sincerest apologies”. by “thank you messenger”, of course, i mean “joey from brooklyn”. the “token bouquet of flowers”, of course means “joey taking a pink baseball bat to your kneecaps”. and please understand “our sincerest apologies” to imply “please go fuck a chainsaw”.
warmest regards for your impending destruction and slow recuperation,
krissa
“we were on a BREAK.”
my love of new york is somehow inextricably linked to my love of blogging, it seems. last monday, the naked city and i had a fight.
krissa: “i SWEAR TO GOD, take that sour look off your face and warm up a litte, or we are turning this city around and going to alabama.”
city: … blows more cold air in face.
this week, it seemed nothing i did brought the city around to my side. i pleaded, she gave me cold shoulders. i pouted, she dropped the windchill a couple degrees. i stomped my foot, and slipped ass-first on her ice. finally i yelled, and she dumped about a foot of snow on my head. it was becoming abusive.
and through this, i couldn’t blog. i just didn’t feel like it. blogging is the intimacy i share with new york, it seems, and i wasn’t feeling particularly intimate this week. you could say the city tapped my shoulder and i said, “not now, baby, i have a headache. and frostbite.”
so i did what any spurned lover in a healthy relationship would do. i slammed the door and got out of town. came home to rhode island for the weekend, as if to say, “i love you new york, but if we don’t get some alone time we’re going to kill each other.” i spent yesterday and today lounging around in the arms of my other lover, the comfort of home. eating whenever i want to [the fridge is always full], watching movies [my lover has cable] and sleeping late [there are no alarm clocks in this tryst].
hopefully now, i can go back home, back to my one true love, and we can begin the peace talks. i’ll say i’m sorry, i’ll try to look up at her tall buildings and her magestic urban beauty and whisper all the right things. between you and me, i think she’s just pissed that i’m going to brasil without her, but this lover is a temperamental, fickle creature so i won’t push any buttons.
so i’ll try to love her again. maybe flowers? maybe chocolates? maybe promises i don’t intend to keep? how does one win back the affection of the cruelest, most intoxicating woman in the world?
