My mouth is too full to retort, so I roll my eyes.
“Did you just say Ben Reynolds?” Jo asks from behind us.
“Yes, I did. Why?” Janice asks. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for the response.
“Ben Reynolds, the lawyer at Benson and Silverberg?”
I don’t feel so well. My throat burns as I swallow the violet mass.
“He’s a lawyer. Anna, is that where he works?”
“Yes. That’s him. Ben Reynolds, son of Milly and Arthur,” I exclaim gaily, trying to sound unconcerned.
This conversation scares me. Is New York the size of Mayberry? How could she know Ben?
“How do you know him?” Jo asks me with an astonishing emphasis on the word you.
“He’s her boyfriend. Now, what can we do for you?” Janice interjects protectively.
“We need more cupcakes,” Jo answers before turning her crystal blue eyes on me.
“Tell Ben hello from me. I dated Ben before Gela. Not an easy gig. Good luck with it.” Jo smirks as she walks off.
“Fuck her. She’s the kind of Waspy bitch who agrees to anal sex so she can be a virgin for her husband. Pay her no mind.”
“What did she mean by ‘good luck’? And are you implying that Ben did her in the ass?” I ask with mounting hysteria.
“Don’t be naïve. All good-looking men have done it. It’s the dorky ones that never manage to get their girlfriends drunk enough to try.”
“Do you think he wants to do that with me?”
“I don’t know. Has he tried?”
“No, is that a bad sign?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Janice guffaws.
The knowledge that Ben dated Jo shouldn’t come as a surprise. She is tall, gorgeous, and sophisticated with attitude to spare. I loathe him for being so superficial. Jo has the personality of burnt plastic, but she is undeniably seductive. With violet frosting wedged beneath my nails and a thoroughly dented ego, I head home. The subway, filled with regular-looking people, comforts me. It’s important to remember that the Jos and Bens of the world are the freaks of nature. Most people do not look like them and couldn’t even with the help of a sharp scalpel. A suffocating sense of inferiority chokes me as I remember Jo’s hypnotic presence. I want to binge. The rugalach I purchased for Mrs. Bester come to mind. They are probably stale by now, but that’s nothing a little half-and-half couldn’t fix. I should have delivered the rugalach days ago, but I didn’t. Maybe I am destined to relapse. A dull pain twists in my stomach as I ascend the stairs in my building. Dating Ben is a terrible strain on my confidence. I am so far out of my league that I cannot afford to deteriorate in any way. I’ve already had a macaroon today, the rugalach must go! I throw my purse onto the bed and grab the rugalach from the top of my minifridge. Knocking loudly on Mrs. Bester’s door I battle a deep fear. What if the old bat isn’t home? I’m not sure I can control myself.
“Mrs. Bester, it’s Anna from upstairs,” I shout loudly, slapping my open hand against the door. “Hello? Mrs. Bester?” I shriek.
Finally, the door opens. The old woman sports an annoyed look with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from her mouth.
“I brought you some rugalach, Mrs. Bester.”
“What did you say?” she asks with irritation.
“I brought you some rugalach,” I clearly articulate while presenting the box.
“Oh. They must be from my son.”
“No, no. They are from me,” I say while pointing to myself.
“What?” she asks accusingly.
“They are from me.”
“No, he’s married,” she says with an eye roll.
And with that, she shuts the door in my face. Not only did I not get credit from the old bag for the rugalach, but she also managed to reject me on behalf of her son.
Utterly defeated by both Jo and Mrs. Bester, I jump back on the L train to see Ben. I must remember that he has chosen me, as I am. Of course, for good measure I exit the subway early and power walk. As Ben’s girlfriend, I need to be in the best shape possible. Ben opens the front door with his shirt off. Damn, he’s sexy. I raise my eyes from his chest to his gorgeous face. He pulls me into his arms, pressing my face against his torso. I take a deep breath and then I lick his chest. Even if I lose him, I will have done what I always wanted to do.
“Babe, are you licking my chest?” Ben asks curiously.
“Why, do you like it?”
“Yeah, but not in the hallway.”
“Uh, okay. Do you want to put a shirt on and get some food?” I ask trying to make him forget my licking.
“I’d rather order in and play Monopoly with my favorite bastard . . .”
“You are so romantic,” I say jokingly. “And to think I didn’t even know you liked board games.”
We eat Chinese food on top of an old blanket so as not to ruin the high thread count Frettes. Then we fall asleep without ever passing GO.
Chapter Eighteen
Babe, wake up. Stop pretending,” Ben stirs me from a night of deep sleep. His voice calls me back to consciousness as if I’m a patient waking from anesthesia. I try to focus my eyes, grateful that Ben’s voice is not an amalgamation of years of fantasies, but an actual man calling me to him. He rubs my arm while saying my name. My boring insignificant name takes on a beauty I never knew it had.
“Hi,” I say in a groggy voice that is as sexy as I can manage at this early hour.
“You’re cute in the mornings,” he says with a kiss on my lips.
I turn my head to shield him from my less-than-delectable morning breath.
“You make me happy.”
“You make me happy, too,” I say, jumping out of bed.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I’m brushing my teeth so I can be nice and fresh to kiss you.”
He smiles. Right answer. Ben likes me nice and fresh.
Ben’s bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, is clean, mostly white, and modern. The faucets are from Waterworks and the towels are fluffier than my pillows. Ben stands behind me in his white boxers brushing his teeth. I’m in a white tank top and cotton underwear. We are commercial-worthy cute, embodying a lifestyle that could easily sell toothpaste. Well, except for the gagging sound Ben makes while brushing his tongue. Following suit, I brush my tongue as Ben kisses my neck. Something rises in my throat, a huge air pocket, better known as a burp.
“Ahhh.”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah. I got a little carried away with the brushing,” I explain with embarrassment. I have officially spoiled my commercial-worthy morning. Ben heads into the bedroom to change for work as I stare at myself crossly in the mirror.
“Babe, tonight we’re meeting John and his girlfriend at Misery.”
“What’s Misery?” I ask innocently, assuming it’s the latest restaurant to hit Manhattan.
“Some new club.”
I hate clubs. They are the adult equivalent of school dances, establishing who is popular and who is not by where you stand and how you boogie. Not to mention, clubs are stomping grounds for the New York women I strive to block from Ben’s viewpoint.
“Misery? Why would they name it that?”
“It’s irony, babe.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to stay in for another round of Monopoly, Chinese leftovers, and sex with your girlfriend?”
“Burpy Bastard, I will be delighted to have sex with you after Misery.”
“How generous of you.”
I can’t dance in front of Ben and his friend John or worse, John’s girlfriend. She’s probably an outrageously sexy dancer whereas I’m more of a foot tapper. There is no doubt in my mind that I will look ridiculous next to her. My best bet is to utterly blend into the background. Ideally, John and his girlfriend will only remember a blurry girl standing near Ben. “Hey, did you see Ben’s girlfriend?” John will ask his girlfriend.
“I know she was there, but I can’t remember her f
or the life of me. Although, there was a blurry figure holding Ben’s hand when he left.”
In regards to my deep-seated abhorrence of nightclubs, clothing is a close second to dancing. I am most comfortable in simple and conservatively stylish black ensembles. Dressing with a premium on tits and ass is just not my forte. I try on two different breast-enhancing tops, but neither do much with what I’ve got. Tears of stress form in my eyes. I’m still the fat kid desperate for clothes to miraculously turn me into a new person. I should tell Ben the truth about feeling out of place in clubs. I doubt he would even mind if I skipped the evening altogether. However, if he meets someone, I’ll never forgive myself.
In front of the mirror, I role play an introduction to John and his girlfriend. They smile instantly charmed by my sharp wit. Unfortunately, even in my pretend meet and greet, I can’t think of anything witty to say. The phone rings, rescuing me from this painful practice session.
“Hello?”
“Babe, I’m not going to make it home beforehand, can we meet in front of Misery?”
“Are you sure? Can’t we tell John to make it a little later?” I ask desperately.
“No, I think it’s easier for me to meet you there.”
“I can meet you at the subway stop.”
“That’s too complicated. I’ll probably grab a cab from the office. This isn’t a problem is it?”
“No, of course not.”
Standing alone while throngs of better-looking women pass me is not a problem. It is a deep immersion in the seventh circle of hell. I survey the women surrounding me. While they range from petite gamines to lanky supermodels, they are all sexy. I may finally be thin, but I am totally lacking in sex appeal. The longer I stand here, the more uncomfortable in my own body I become. I cross my arms and tuck my hands into my armpits, creating an invisible straight jacket for myself. This is too disturbing an image, so I unfold my arms and place them behind my back. This is a posture most often taken by museum docents or butlers. Annoyed with myself I drop my arms, in all their awkward glory, by my side. Short of sitting on them or cutting them off, I have no other options. I am ready to take my proportion-challenged arms home when I see a cowboy on the horizon, coming to save me. In a navy suit and pinstriped shirt, Ben is nothing short of perfect. His lips are cold and incredibly satisfying against my face. I want to devour him, here on the street for everyone to see.
“Who’s Benny kissing?”
The voice is shrill, the East Coast equivalent of a Los Angeles Valley girl. She didn’t actually say, “Like, who is Benny, like, kissing?” but she may as well have. I immediately give up hope of her having an IQ above her bra size. I haven’t met John’s girlfriend, Lisette, before, but I am able to assess a great deal from her appearance. She was born into money, attitude, and apparently a lot of makeup. I would not be surprised if her mother applied a little gloss on Lisette before cutting the umbilical cord.
Lisette’s natural expression is one of beautiful disgust, as in “I’m beautiful, and you’re disgusting.” Or perhaps that expression is unique to me.
“This is Anna, Ben’s girlfriend. Remember I told you about her, she’s a caterer,” John says delicately as if speaking to a child.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I offer with a warm, albeit phony smile.
“Hey,” Lisette says coldly before turning to Ben. “Benny,” she squeals throwing her thin alabaster arms around my boyfriend.
I hate Lisette. And this is not just because she was mean to me. I have far loftier and nobler reasons; she’s a lady loather. The type who claims all women are jealous of her, making it impossible for her to be friends with anyone except men who want to bang her. In a testament to his stupidity, John enjoys thinking that everyone wants to sleep with his girlfriend. John is one of Ben’s colleagues at Benson and Silverberg as well as a true sycophant. He expresses his love for Ben through strange side-by-side man hugs where he throws an arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear. He tends to say cheesy things like, “You and me man. We’re in it for life.” Ben loves the attention too much to correct John’s assumption that they are best friends and most likely will not be “in it for life.”
As irritating as I find John, Lisette far surpasses him. Seated between her date and me at a small table, Lisette insists John order a bottle of Cristal. He agrees as a means of impressing both Lisette and Ben with his generosity. I, on the other hand, am not even on his radar. Ben talks to John while Lisette and I ignore each other. We may as well be at different tables since we both refuse to make eye contact with each other. Clearly, our rocky introduction extinguished any possibility of friendship. Ben watches me while listening to John. Every couple of seconds he steals a quick glance in my direction. At first, I think this is because he is enamored of me, but soon I realize he is trying to communicate a message. I already know what he’s going to say so I avoid locking eyes. Ben pauses his conversation with John and whispers in my ear, “Talk to her.”
I assume he means Barbie’s less intelligent twin. I nod, knowing that short of running out of Misery I have no choice. I swallow what’s left of my happiness and turn toward Lisette, who is actually twirling her hair like bimbos do on television.
“So, what do you do, Lisette?” I ask in a forced tone.
“PR,” she responds flatly.
“Public relations fascinates me,” I say with an impressively straight face. This is a total and utter fabrication for the sake of conversation.
“PR also stands for personal retail,” Lisette responds snarkily.
“Good to know. What exactly is personal retail?”
“I am hired to sort through clothes for my clients so that they don’t have to waste their time with all the crap.”
“Oh! A personal shopper. I’ve always wanted one.”
“I don’t think they have them at the Gap. And, so you know, shopper isn’t really a cool term. That’s why we call it PR, personal retail.”
“Wow, learn something new every day. Shopper is derogatory. I had no idea that you guys were so politically motivated. Impressive.”
I take a second and jot down a quick mental entry in Hello Fatty:
Dear Lisette,
I was so sorry to hear of you contracting the first case of flesh-eating herpes.
Warm regards,
Anna
“Now is personal retail, as you call it, a new major at universities? Something you studied?”
“What?”
“Did you study,” I say bitchily, “you know go to classes for personal retail?”
“No . . .”
“What did you study at college?”
“I didn’t finish . . .”
“You didn’t get a degree?” I say with thick sarcasm.
Lisette shakes her head while rolling her eyes.
“Well that is surprising,” I say insincerely. “I went to Penn, that’s the University of Pennsylvania,” I continue without any modesty. “It’s part of the Ivy League.”
“You major in home ec?”
“I majored in molecular biology. My abilities in the kitchen are an added bonus,” I screech inches from Lisette’s face.
I cannot believe I said that. I sound like a pompous idiot.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Excuse me?” I ask in amazement.
“Whatever.”
“Was whatever one of your vocabulary words on the GED?”
“You know what I heard? Girls who study too much don’t know how to dance. Is that true, Hannah?”
“It’s Anna,” I say harshly, stopping before I fib regarding my dancing abilities.
Lisette smirks at me, stands, rubbing her hands down over her small waist and tight ass before heading onto the dance floor.
Apparently, Lisette’s theme song is Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer.” There really isn’t any other explanation for her behavior in front of the table. If she wasn’t attractive this would be a pitiable display of sexuality, but since she is, every man in
a thirty foot radius watches. Ben tracks her gyrating body with his eyes and I quietly detest him for it. Of course, I stare, but as a matter of disgust, not excitement. If that’s what Ben wants in a girlfriend, I should relinquish my title and point him in the direction of the nearest strip club. Lisette strokes every inch of her body while miming ecstatic facial expressions. Oh, please. This woman isn’t turned on by her own touch; it’s the audience that’s getting her off. Ben continues to watch as I seethe with rage. It’s disrespectful and cruel to subject me to such a blatant display of interest in another woman. I am confident that he has an erection, which I assume is part of Lisette’s perverted mandate for the evening. My boyfriend imprudently salivates over this illiterate whore and he has the nerve to hold my hand. Driven by hormones, fear, and anger, I release his hand and seize his crotch. I am prepared to snap his penis in half! Except, it’s limp. He may not have an erection, but I am still displeased with him for allowing the night to descend into a peep show, so I swat at his penis in punishment. Ben laughs. John stares at us.
“John, what is Benny laughing at?” Lisette asks, standing in front of the table like a disappointed schoolchild.
“I don’t know. Ben, why are you laughing?” John inquires quietly as his face contorts with angst. Watching them squirm is pathetically satisfying.
“Anna . . . I am laughing at Anna. She is sharp witted this one.”
How Ben turned my crotch check into a litmus test for wittiness is beyond me, but I am pleased nonetheless. His eyes communicate that he understands me without saying a word. He watches me, conveying something much more important. This is something I never thought would happen. Ben Reynolds is in love with me. Yes! He really is! He smiles bright, amused by me, brimming with a pride I have never seen before.
“I love you, Ben.”
“I love you, too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Standing in D&D’s kitchen, Janice marinates chicken breasts for a publisher’s lunch while I chop fresh rosemary. My conversion to vegetarianism has made the tasting aspect of cooking poultry, meats, and fish difficult, but luckily Janice has picked up the slack. Holding a pale pink breast in her left hand, Janice pauses before responding to my big news.
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