tales of a girl in the city

juillet 28, 2005


He's telling me to check my heart-rate and that we've got 15 seconds until we start another hill. I find this very confusing because what he used to say is, "You came into this room like a bomb..... I wanna lick you."

Yes, it's true.

My Wednesday morning spin instructor has the exact same voice as a boy I slept with in college. The boy. Luis. The one who was unforgettable.

My instructor's name is Dominick, and he's cute but nothing special. His voice, though, is like a time machine. Amazing how it brings me back. I close my eyes to listen, and almost laugh out loud....

Luis came to see me in a show Freshman year; I was the lead in "A Little Night Music," and Luis was friends with the guy who played the part of the non-speaking butler. After the show, moving through the audience in my gorgeous auburn wig, collecting congratulations like long-stemmed roses, I spotted him for the first time and couldn't move.

That night I watched him watch me at our cast party. His friend brought him over to meet me. I don't remember what was said. Compliments were probably exchanged. Also, basic but important information: "My name is Kathryn. I have a boyfriend." He walked away soon after, diverting his attention to our music director Julie. But I watched all night.

I remember what he looked like as he swung her around to Otis Redding on the dance floor.

I remember the envy I felt watching him slide his mouth over hers.

Two years later, he would still be in my mind like a bookmark.

It was December of my Junior year and I was out on a dismal date--one of three that I had had all semester. The man was a math major, which should say enough about the date and the night and the kiss that followed: queer movements of the mouth, dry with funny little lip smacking noises. Very repetitive. Algebraic even.

I was bored and trying to look interested in the discussion I was having with my date, Jonathan, when in secret I was watching Luis at the bar with a girl. Her name was Emma, I would find out later. She was his kind-of-girlfriend at the time. Depended on who you asked.

They sat on two stools, drinking beer and looking very sexy--maybe because she was wearing red. I think he might have whispered something to her, and as I sat listening to my date talk about the benefits of uncircumcised penises, I was sure their conversation was better.

Luis looked good. No, not nearly accurate. Not good. He looked like a boy who had been on my mind for two years. He was aloof and thin and intellectual. But, so cool. I know it's overused and insufficient, but it really is the word I want. Cool like kids who listened to jazz music before their parents. Cool like that incredible girl from your high school who said the perfect thing in an argument with her boyfriend and did not, you were sure, congratulate herself for it later in front of the bathroom mirror. Cool. Ice cube in summer on a hot day when just a little trickle misses your mouth and falls down your chin, swimming a cold line over your collarbones and between your breasts. Cool.

Next to my date, Jonathan Boone Cryer, distant relative to Ulysses S. Grant and the Daniel Boone, Luis just seemed to fit. He was a fixture in the bar. Belonging to that moment and that atmosphere. Part of the smoke, the music, that girl in red. He was far beyond math or third dates, and certainly well past distant relatives of early-American heroes whose actual heroic achievements I would've been hard-pressed to name.

Jonathan Boone Cryer. Luis. That is it, really. In the end, the reasons are best conveyed by the names.

Luis. Take it apart. "L." Immediate. The tongue gets involved. The "ui" combination makes your lips purse a little. You're kissing the air, imagining the place where his mouth would be. And "s." What a close. Finished with a whisper. Even a whistle. Like the explosion of air after a sigh. Or a moan.

These are the things I thought about as I watched him drink his beer.

I dumped Jonathan Boone Cryer later that night right after our last mathematical kiss. Seeing Luis had made me want something different: no more linear contact, no diagrammable conversations, nothing exact or precise. I wanted skin and dizzy and endlessly arching. I wanted improvisation.

I wanted cool.

So I made it my New Year's Resolution to see him naked.

Best resolution I ever made. Only resolution I've ever kept.

I don't know where he is now. It's been six years since his nudity became my promise to myself, and now I'm living in Brooklyn and dragging my ass to the gym every day, fulfilling a different kind of promise to myself--one that is distinctly less fun.

But I do love my Wednesday mornings. Music pounding. And Dominick is telling us all, "Push harder. You can do anything for thirty seconds ladies." I close my eyes.

The face disappears. It's just the voice now.

A trickle of sweat swims a line down my collarbone and between my breasts.

You came into this room like a bomb.

Pushing harder. Straining. Cool.

I could ride that bike for hours.

juillet 21, 2005


My life goes from multi-millionaire to deli-guy in under 60 seconds.

Take my day on Tuesday, for example. We had a meeting at work to discuss our $7.5 million dollar penthouses. I'm the only woman present at the table, and the only person there--aside from the reporter we're speaking with--who doesn't have two comma's in her bank account. All the men are barraging the poor journalist with manly details: measurements, square footage, dates, money. I can see the guy's eyes rolling into the back of his head. What he needs is a story, not a flow chart. And though the floorplans are fantastic, floorplans don't sell newspapers.

The reporter asks a question about the history of the building, and none of the Big Guys know the answer.

"1887," I tell him. It's the first thing I've said; I've been biding my time. "But no one knows what happened to the domes, or why they were removed. It's one of the mysteries of this building, and it's part of what the buyers love."

And with that, the journalist is once again jotting notes in his notebook. What he needs is a story, and stories are my terrain.

To the businessmen at this meeting, these penthouses are an investment, a business transaction, which is why they've been conducting this interview in quantifiable terms. But this isn't about price per square foot, and at first I'm the only person at the table who recognizes that. The people who will read the article, and, more importantly, the people who will ultimately buy these homes, need to know what kind of life $7.5 million dollars can buy you. Forget cast-iron and 14 foot ceilings, this penthouse is built from two things: glamour and envy.

In five minutes, I paint the reporter a picture of both.

When the meeting is over, my boss congratulates me and after he leaves, I congratulate myself. It's been worth it to come in on my day off--well, kind of--but now I'm hungry and ready to take off my fancy shoes and return to flip flops. So I do.

As I walk out the door, my business-presentational self slips from my shoulders, and I'm out on the street. The man on the corner twangs a few notes on his electric guitar and I hum along when I finally recognize the tune. Weaving my way through traffic, I cross the avenue to the deli where I get lunch nearly every day. The door is wide open, and it isn't crowded, thank God, because I can feel my blood sugar plummeting as the adrenaline wears off. I'm already smiling when I see who's behind the counter.

"Andrew!" I shout as I'm walking past the bags of BBQ chips, "How are you?"

"Kathryn! Hello, Kathryn! Where have you been all day?" He's at the stove, flipping someone else's turkey burger or egg-and-cheese.

"So you missed me," I flirt, "but not as much as I've missed you. I suck at cooking Andrew. How come my grilled cheeses never taste like yours?"

He put the whole wheat toast in as soon as he saw me, and we chat about his day off tomorrow while the bread is making its way around the metal track. I ask him if the new guitar-playing street musician is driving him crazy. We decide we can handle him--he's not as bad as some of the people who pretend to play instruments but are, in fact, talent-free. By now he's putting the mustard on my sandwich, and I feel like I did when I was little and at the table, waiting for my mom to cut off the crusts.

"Here is the best sandwich I've made all day," he says as he hands me the package. Warm, still, in its aluminum wrapper, I grin.

"Thank you, Andrew," and I mean it.

I pass my office again on my way to the park. For a second I'm thinking, again, about $7.5 million and what it will buy. Then my stomach rumbles, and I remember what's important.

juillet 18, 2005

One-Woman Show

"You've really done a lot for someone your age," Pink Tie looks at me over his drink, and though he's cuter by the minute, my heart sinks a little.

He doesn't get me.

"Yeah, I guess I have," I twirl the olives in my dirty martini and then try to change the subject.

I have just taken him through the story of how I ended up studying at Juilliard:

...My first crazy opera teacher in Manhattan, "Singing happens between your nipples and your nose...."

...Her son Rickie, who'd lived at home for all 30 years of his life, playing piano for her students in his boxer shorts...

...Our summer excursion to Altenburg, Germany....

...The communist hives we'd lived in....

...The concert we sang with bats flying through the open castle windows almost every night, confused by the sound waves created by the orchestra....

...The woman who came up to me afterwards, pulling me aside to say, "You must never stop singing..."

...How eight million tiny coincidences of time and place melted together in a single wonderful bit of luck, so that on my return to college in the Fall, I traveled down to Lincoln Center every week to study with one of the greatest voice teachers in the world....

I have done a lot. What he says is true.

"So, what did you eat when you were climbing Kilimanjaro?" I want to know. He's not revealed much about himself so far, but this one piece of his history fascinates me.

"There must be more to this person," I've been thinking that all night.

What did you learn? What did you feel when you reached the top? When was it hardest? Did you have porters? What were they like?

I hope I'm not bombarding him with questions, but I'm thirsty for the details of this adventure.

Finally, I get a glimpse of what I've been looking for:

"The sky was different," he's remembering it for real now, and the meaning of the experience has suddenly come into his view, "that's what was most amazing. I grew up with one sky at night. Constellations I was used to: Orion and The Big Dipper. It's like one of the most basic things that you feel you can always rely on. And then here I am, in Africa, on the top of this mountain, actually up in the lower part of the atmosphere, and even the sky is different. I don't recognize a single constellation. Nothing is familiar, not even the most familiar things."

The idea is like a color I've never seen before. This is why I love meeting new people.


Pink Tie both is and is not a Manhattan Dater.

He is because he goes on several dates a week, accompanied by bouncy twenty-something girls who he meets at all the latest rooftop bars. Even without my asking for any details about his weekly adventures with l'amour, I pick up on this immediately. He's always asking, "Didn't I tell you about that already?" And the answer is always, "No," with the silent addition of, "That was the twenty-two year-old that you went out with last night. The one who I'm betting lives in Murray Hill."

Pink Tie has learned The Man-hattan Lesson: the city is full of women. 3.2 million flavors. Something new around every corner. Why settle for just one?

But he's also still a new kid on the block. Female Manhattan crazies haven't scared him from asking The Big Questions. Yet.

At some point in the date he even asks about kids.

For a minute, while it registers I think I must've misheard him. Or perhaps he means baby goats?

"You really want to know the answer to this question?" I'm incredulous.

He nods yes, I swear.

"Well, I do want them. But someday. Years from now. I'm too selfish yet for children."

He asks for more details.

There must be something in our water.

If he's asking, I'm going to give him the real answer. So I tell him that a family will someday be everything to me. That I think it's the most important thing you can do. Make life. Make a future. That when I've made the choice to have a child, that person will get every bit of passion and love and knowledge that I possess. But, in the meantime, what that means is I focus completely on figuring myself out. On doing for me.

After I've said this, there's silence.

"I'm either going to totally fall in love with you, or hate you," he tells me.

I laugh a good, deep laugh. The kind that feels fantastic.

We shall see.

juillet 13, 2005

Truth: A(Version)

I came to Central Park having made myself two promises. The first was that I would risk. That I would say to you, "I will go. Let's go together to London. Let's try. I want to take this leap."

We started our walk, our conversation about "The Hard Stuff," I held your hand in my left one and my first promise to myself in my right. Through the Park, as we began, that first promise felt easy, like carrying a single balloon. It felt yellow and floating and can't wait til we get there and will there be candy and how long will we stay.

In my peach party dress, I was ready. Impossible things had happened to me in that dress; I'd worn it on purpose. For luck.

As we walked, we seemed new--the two of us, together--and at first I thought that was because we were at a beginning. Having gotten very good at Ending Things, starting them is less familiar. Starting them with someone else is virtually unknown.

This newness made me shy but hopeful.

It also made me naive. In those initial few moments, with the beginning and the hope and the peach-colored luck, it felt as though my leap needed to be large enough to get me safely over just a very small puddle--not the shark-infested waters of Timing and History and Fear. Not the entire Atlantic.

I can do this.

It had never been more easy to be brave.

But those were just the first seconds. A risk and hope were two steps in a walk of thousands. The entire journey is far more complicated. As we are learning.

And, of course, as is the way with these things, we don't know where we're headed.


That night we went through the park and onto the street. We crossed Broadway. Left trees for sidewalks. We left sidewalks for benches in a different park.

We walked and leapt, but not high or far enough.

This is where we have landed.


Everything is the same since that walk, but also everything is different. And that's just one of many dualities that can both be true. A lesson I have learned: truth is technicolored and multilayered. It can change. It is not absolute. Truth makes a fool of Mr. Hemingway, who was always telling himself to write it and only it. One line of truth followed by another.

Let's try it and see: we ended on that walk. But yet, afterwards, and even now, we still have not ended. You listened. You didn't listen. I heard. I didn't hear. I cried while I laughed. You were present but already also gone.

You see, there are many truths.


Here is one:

It is beautiful in New York today. It's my day off, and I'm in my kitchen with my feet up on a chair and the windows open. I can hear the morning outside--a dim, low buzz from something that sounds like a lawnmower, but can't be. A car horn. The wind. I got coffee just now and loved the look of the milk swirling into the plastic cup. I went grocery shopping and bounced in front of the cheeses to Otis Redding and Aretha. Then came back, to sit here and write.

Here is another:

The first time I left you, it crushed me. I hurt for months. You know; you've read it. This time, it's different. In a manner of speaking, you have left me. But I'm more whole. Not broken. I don't understand why.

Here is one:

Since you left, I sleep less. I get up at five a.m. It's a change I've been trying to bring about for a lifetime, and now it's here, and not even hard.

Here is a truth:

I loved you very much. I love you, right now, in my windy kitchen. And as I sit here, just so you know that I'm not weaving half-truths, I will tell you that I still know what is flawed about you and me. I've embroidered my version of this with the wrong things about us, as well as the right. My truth is complicated, not easy. Not perfect. But real.

And one more:

I don't know that I feel cared about by you anymore. So. That has changed.


The second promise I made myself on our walk was that I would go home to my own bed.

Instead, I went home to yours. All night long, your body covered me like tracing paper. Because of the weight of your leg slung over me, I knew the spacing and shape of my legs. Your arm beneath, around me, your hand on my waist, and I slept knowing the curve of my own self. As well as yours.

Suspended in a place of nothing, we slept--and also didn't sleep--until it was time to begin our separate days.


Here is a truth:

I will not wait for you.


If nothing else is true, this is:

There is a story weaving between us.
I am braiding it with my fingers at this very moment.
I wove it that night as we walked.
I leave it trailing out behind me.
I leave it here, where you will find it.

So that you can find your way.

juillet 10, 2005

Working It Out

"Sixteen more, Ladies. Count them down."



There is a 15-pound rubbery bar in my hands, and a pool of fire in both of my shoulders. I'm not sure I have 14 more repetitions in me, but I know with a certainty that I have seldom experienced in life, that I do still have the strength to cleave the instructor's head in half with this body bar. He is a dirty liar who is currently making us do an extra set of excercises that I think might be making my arms bleed.

Are my arms bleeding?

Even if they were, I'm certain this mad man would not let me stop.


The instructor, a huge guy who I suspect at one point jumped out of helicopters into the jungles of Central America for some sort of top-secret military training, is mean and I hate him. My ass arts. My neck hurts. Soon sit-ups will start and my stomach will hurt. Both British Boob and Southern Belle Boob are yelping. I--

British Boob: *Ahem*

--sorry, we, are in a sad state.

Southern Belle Boob: Uh...darlin?

Ok. I and British Boob are in a sad state. Southern Belle Boob is flawless as always.


Anyway, this sucks. I hate it. I hate everyone in this room, particularly those who have military training, and those who are obviously actually robots because they are still NOT SWEATING. Also those who have coordinated workout gear, and--

Southern Belle Boob: Oh, honey-lamb, look at that child's bottom! That girl in front of us!

British Boob: She does have a rather firm, uh....yes...well. Right. I concur with Miss Belle Boob's previous statement. Ahem.

Southern Belle Boob: Her bottom is gorgeous! Round as a peach.

--and any women in the room whose butts resemble fruit. Also any boobs in the room that talk.

juillet 07, 2005

Win, Lose, Or Dinner

Yesterday, the saga continued.

PinkTie: How about grabbing some dinner tomorrow night? Whaleboy, Batman or me (your choice, but only one)?

Me: So far, knowing you guys has been like being a contestant on a game show.

Me: How about whoever wants to take me to dinner, calls me and asks.

Call me old fashioned, but please.


It is amazing how cool you can be with members of the opposite sex when you truly don't care about them.

Em and I head home, nixing French fries, but I don't reveal that info to the Pink Tie, Whaleboy, Batman Triumvirate.

Text from a random number that I assume is Whaleboy's: "Why'd you leave?"

Me: "We'd a craving for junk food."

WB: "Home at 11?"

Me, two hours later, as I'd no urgent need to respond: "Who said we went home?"

Five seconds later, he was back with a response. I was bored, so I turned the phone off and curled up with Lenny.

Three days later, the texts were still coming.

WB: You out tonight?

Me: Nope. Who am I talking to?

WB: Whaleboy. But I can hand the phone to Pink Tie or Batman if you want.

Who cares? I don't write back.

Then, several more days pass. By now I've forgotten their real names. Batman's I don't think I ever knew, but Whaleboy's and Pink Tie's both began with "J." Confusing.

WB: Hey, it's {insert J name # 1 here}. Wanna come out tonight?

I feel like responding, so I write: "Hey, J-name # 1. (who I assume is Whaleboy because he's the one who took my number) Can't tonight. Going home to Wisconsin."

WB *as if catching me with a clever ploy*: "It's actually J-name #2 writing."

I have no idea what's going on. I guess I'd mixed up the two J names and called Whaleboy by the wrong one? But, whatever. Since when does text messaging feel like algebra?

Now another unknown number is sending me a text. I gather this one is from Pink Tie.

PT: That wasn't me just now, you know. I didn't get your number, remember?

I don't care.

Then from WB: Pink Tie has your number now.


WB: One of us is married. Remove the number from your phone of whichever one of us you think is married.

Oooh. What do I win if I'm right? Come on.

My cozy little living room is suddenly being tainted with too much....boy. This is so fifth grade.

WB: Who do you think it is?

Is he serious? Enough.

Me, back to both boys: Then one of you shouldn't be on the roof of the Met picking up women.

And I turn my phone off.


A Recent Friday

The one with the pink tie was first to approach.

Leaving his friend alone with the girl who'd made the unfortunate black-underwear-with-white-pants choice, Pink Tie sauntered over. Before he opened his mouth I guessed, "Banker." After he opened his mouth I guessed, "California." I was semi-right on both counts. Salesman at bank. California by way of Wisconsin.

Guessing again, I thought, "Pink tie because he's differentiating himself from the conservative, uptight men he never thought he'd work with."

Bingo. Practically the first words out of his mouth are a comment on the "laid-back" casualness of his attire (a shirt and tie with slacks) and the flack he'd received all day from his Brooks Brothers officemates for the pink. I am three for three.

Friend of Pink Tie has managed to somehow excuse himself, and now he's approaching as well. They went to business school together; Pink Tie is the one who turned himself in to work for The Man, but his friend has remained true to his youthful dreams of saving the world. Friend works as an environmental consultant. He is promptly nicknamed Whaleboy.

We're a foursome now, standing on the roof of the Met with plastic martini glasses in our hands.

The conversation is good; lots of quick responses and humor. And they're both handsome. A rare combination. I'm not enamoured, but I am entertained, and it feels good to laugh and get a little tipsy on the roof of such a fine establishment.

The patter is going smoothly when suddenly cell phones ring--theirs--and we wait while they exchange glances and confer.

A third friend has arrived in the lobby and the guards won't let him up. The museum is closing.

The mood suddenly changes. The boys are rolling their eyes at one another.

"Our friend looks like Christian Bale," Pink Tie says uneasily.

"And, if he comes up, he'll totally be the center of attention," Whaleboy says.

"I mean, he'll make himself the center of attention. It's just the way he is," adds Pink Tie.

I've never witnessed this particular tact before. On the one hand, it's kind of cute in a displaying-my-insecurities little boy kind of way. On the other hand, judging by the not-so-glowing things they continue to say about this supposed Batman look-alike, I can't help but think, "With friends like these...."

I've been ripping apart strangers all night--there's the girl in a sausage-casing almost-swimsuit who apparently thought the Met was an Eastern European discotheque. There's her companion, who, judging by the bones jutting out from her back, considers the two olives she just ate to be "dinner." For the week.

The roof is full of easy targets; that's half the fun of Manhattan. But I'd never talk about my friends that way. And I would certainly never introduce anyone in my social circle to strangers by prepping them with a list of my friends's most negative qualities. I don't hang out with anyone who I like so little. Why waste my time?

The boys continue to plan ways to ditch Batman.

"We can go out the side door," they say.

Em and I shrug. In the end, it's nothing to us. We head downstairs and don't protest when the guard motions us to a side door.

As we walk out, I think about the "Christian Bale" look-alike, and can almost hear the origins of his nickname: some drunken co-ed on a now long-finished trip to Tijuana, spluttering out, "Hey! You look like that guy from Wittle Lomen," just before stumbling over to enter herself in a wet t-shirt contest.

Bottom line, as we bee-line for the alternate exit, I think it's safe to assume we're not missing out on anyone who is really as hot as Mr. Bale. And if his friends like him so little, I'm sure he's not someone I need to date.

A few minutes later, Pink Tie gets a conscience, "We should totally go get him."

"Okay," Whaleboy agrees.

We do, and I find that I'm now four for four. Christian Bale's cute second cousin, maybe. I must be psychic.

Still and all, however, Em and I have not done badly. Between Pink Tie and Whaleboy and now Batman, we've found ourselves in fine company. Besides, there are some things I need to get my mind off of, and three good looking men equals perfect diversion.

They invite us downtown to a swanky Soho hotel bar. We accept. The taxi ride is full of Batman doing exactly as his friends had promised he would, but I'm glad we've gone with them anyway. Plus, I find it fun to continually thwart Batman's attempts at dominating the conversation; I'm forever bringing Pink Tie and Whaleboy back into the mix. It's a secret joke between the four of us. Nice.

Anyway, the next bar is black lacquer and cow hide chairs--the accoutrements of a Manhattan hot spot. Pink Tie gains points when he remembers my drink, and there's a dirty martini in my hand before I have to ask. His point accumulation, however, is not so high that I don't notice him scoping out another blonde, and all at once I'm ready to leave.

In my half-martinied haze I look at this other girl and think, "The casting director from All My Children just called me stunning. I've got a genius IQ, a Fran Lebowitz sense of humor, and boobs that talk. I'm fucking special and sick of men who don't make me feel that way."

I don't know where this comes from, but it's what happens and I want to leave. I guess when I'm drunk I'm bitchy and self-righteous.

So, Em and I excuse ourselves politely. We're off to eat fries at The Tribecca Grande, we tell them.

Of course they're incredulous. Off so soon? they say. What they mean is, "Ditching us for French fries?" I'm sure they've never heard of such a thing.

As we're leaving, Whaleboy asks for my number, and I give it to him. The real version.

They're already text messaging me in the cab ride home.

juillet 06, 2005

My 4th

"The dog just ate a nest of baby bunnies."

My dad wakes me up with this news, and I know I'm back in Wisconsin, in the little log house in the country. Where I grew up.

I don't let the dog lick me for the next three days, because it's gross, thinking about what he wolfed down, all in one great, slobbery gulp. But, I realize, he is a dog, unlike the pampered, puffed up kind that trots up Fifth Avenue, or--even worse--gets carried around in it's own Birkin bag. This dog does dog things. Without apologies.

I nickname him Frankie "Watership Down" [insert my last name here] anyway. Just to keep him humble.

While I'm home, I have brunch with my gram at the restaurant part of a Day's Inn. The restaurant still has fake Christmas trees up, and the food tastes like nothing, except for the pizza, which tastes like eggs.

My relatives like the food, but I've come for the company; my aunts and uncles, one cousin and Gram, all here for the morning to say hello and find out how my life is in the Big City.

They are not without their own adventures. My aunt has just retired. My uncle's band is "giggin'." He laughs when he tells me they played at a church. A rebel in his earlier years--a different trashy girlfriend every holiday, and a even house once burned down by someone he owed money to--he never believed he would grow up enough to have a church job. But there he is, telling us about the old ladies that sway back and forth while they watch him play guitar.

A different uncle mentions his eyesight. "You're getting floaters," the others tell him, and he nods. This is strange because he's the one I know as the youngest. My first memories of him are probably when he was in his late twenties. As old as I am now.

The meal goes off with almost no mention of politics or the fact that I'm not baptized--two subjects that usually get my grama going. She calls my cousin's gay friends "homos" once, while digging into another hush puppy, but other than that, she's all smiles throughout the meal. This time, I pass muster and she lets me know it. I'm thin she says. And--examining my face as she hugs me--so beyootiful. This gives her great pleasure. She's kind of a snob.

"I've just had a good meeting with a casting director from All My Children," I tell her, and everyone at the table "ooh's" and "ahh's" like I am the fireworks.

"Let us know if you're going to be on!"

Of course the world will know if I'm on, thanks to my dad, but I don't say that. Instead, I try to temper their expectations, "My friend Angel was just on. Her only line was, 'Here's your check.'"

They nod as if they will keep themselves reigned in, but I know it's too late. I remember the time a basketball game watching Michael Jordan and The Bulls became, "Katie went to a basketball game and sat by Michael Jackson." Creativity runs in our genes.

juillet 05, 2005

Not Home

"I'll call you," he says.

He doesn't.

He doesn't call Monday. Tuesday, when I am Staying Out To Have Fun Without Him, he doesn't call. I know because I have my cell phone on vibrate in my pocket. Even during the movie.

Wednesday he doesn't call.


The week is marked by his non-calls.

"You're not calling him either," my friend A reminds me. But that's not the point, and we both know it.

Finally, after a week of this, I pick up my cell phone and find his number. "Edit Detail." I erase his name, and replace it with, "IF YOU PICK UP THIS CALL YOU, KATE, ARE THE ASSHOLE."

Fifteen minutes later, he calls.

I smile and watch the word "asshole" blink on my cell phone screen with every ring.

I'll find time to listen to his voice mail.