Me Times Three

by Alex Witchel

  I was never tired. Some days I thought I might fly out the window. My ideas were good. My contacts were good. I even looked good, I thought one day in the ladies’ room. I wasn’t so fat after all. I had somehow come to embrace the lesson that Paul had learned at the end, however reluctantly, however incomplete: Be who you are. It seemed so easy, so obvious. Not to mention the fact that I was incredibly good at it. Better, as a matter of fact, than anyone else.

  The Friday of my first week was one of those days in May that can be surprisingly, blazingly hot—so much so that the fun goes out of it. The air-conditioning in the office wasn’t quite working, and though I thought about going home and showering before dinner, I just didn’t have the time. Rather than arrive at the museum sweaty from the subway, though, I splurged and took a cab. Traffic was horrible, as usual, and we crawled up Madison Avenue, missing every light. At least the cab was cool. I worried about being late, but more than that I worried about the copy I was editing. I had a printout on my lap and kept reviewing it. This piece wouldn’t run until the following week’s issue, but it was my first one, and I wanted it to be great.

  I glanced out the window. I had loved the boutiques on Madison since I was a little girl. I used to look in every window and pick out one outfit, then go on to the next. It was something I would still do now, but I turned back to the copy, checking it again.

  I looked at my watch: 7:20. Where were we? Seventy-fourth Street. Close, but … I looked to my left. Good Lord, it was Bucky and a girl I assumed must be Wendy. He looked totally bizarre. His posture was ramrod straight, as if he’d joined the military. He was expensively dressed—Armani, probably—a dark jacket and a light blue shirt, tailored pants. She was pretty—no Carla Jones, more cheerleader pretty—but the odd thing was that she seemed to have a collapsible neck. She would talk, and her head would bob up and down, keeping time. She went on animatedly, bouncing alongside him, though he seemed to only half listen, the way adults do when a child tells them a dream.

  They walked along, and I saw that they were holding hands. Well, not exactly. They had hooked their pinkies together, and I would have bet that the gesture was one of those dating things that happens to people when some detail takes over and becomes a cutesy fetish. Our thing.

  I watched them go by, swinging their entwined pinkies, and I kept on watching until the cab moved forward. They certainly were adorable, but from where I sat, only one thing seemed clear: He couldn’t even give her his whole hand.

  Mark was waiting at the entrance to the museum. He looked good—rested and, best of all, excited to see me.

  “Hi,” I called. As I got closer, I felt a wave of nerves, and then neither of us seemed to know what to do. We bumped cheeks and turned at the same time and started to walk.

  “I don’t even know where I’m going,” I admitted, and he led me through the Egyptians to a back elevator that took us to the Trustees Dining Room. It was pretty in a formal, modern sort of way, and you could see where the sun had just set through the vast expanse of windows.

  We ordered cocktails, and toasted my new job and his new divorce, and finally, we both relaxed and talked as effortlessly as we had on the phone. The time just went, and suddenly a man appeared at our table along with the coffee.

  “Mr. Lewis, welcome,” he said. “When you’re finished with dinner, perhaps you and your guest”—he nodded politely at me—“would like to see our visiting Corot exhibition. The museum, of course, is closed, but if I could escort you, it would be my pleasure.”

  “Thanks so much, we’d love that,” he said, looking over for my assent. I nodded happily, noticing how easily he’d said “we.”

  After coffee came brandy, and by the time the man reappeared to guide us, I felt as if I were floating. Listening to the sounds of our footsteps echoing through an empty hall, I could hardly believe what had happened the last time I was here. These were not the angry clacks of heels, just three people in no great rush, stopping to look at the beautiful sights. It sounded friendly—homey, almost. A vacuum cleaner buzzed in the background.

  “Here you are, sir,” the man said, turning to go. “I’ll return in a few minutes.”

  Mark thanked him and stepped close to a painting of a very blue sky with a rounded woman lolling on a hillside, and he turned to me, because I hung back.

  “I have to tell you again, I don’t know very much about art,” I began, and he held out his hand and I reached toward his open palm, broad and warm, and he clasped my hand and drew me closer. He talked about the expression of peace on the woman’s face, which I suddenly felt mirrored my own. I could be painted now, I thought, as he reached his arm around me, cradling my shoulders—though I would have to admit I knew nothing about lolling. But as I settled further into the curve of his arm and pondered the sweeping blue of the sky, that didn’t bother me much.

  I could learn.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alex Witchel, a Style reporter for the New York Times, is the author of Girls Only: Sleepovers, Squabbles, Tuna Fish and Other Facts of Family Life. She lives in New York City with her husband, Frank Rich.