Mark regarded Janet as she became yet another person subjected to his convoluted predicaments, “I was supposed to be meeting a client and his wife went into labor on my way up here,” with a weary nod to his cell phone on the bar between them, “of course my secretary didn’t bother relating the message until I got here.” She was wearing a short pleated gray skirt, a semi-transparent black blouse, “well,” and a pair of black knee-high boots, “that sounds like a reasonable excuse to me.” He nodded thoughtfully, “let’s hope all his capital doesn’t wind up in her college fund.” “Oh,” her warm smile, “it’s a girl?” “Who knows… there’s a fifty-fifty chance,” gently rapping his broad knuckles on the bar, “assuming it wasn’t a blatant lie. Anyway that’s how I ended up here.” The doubts and presumptions that had made her anxious, “well,” the way hunger and fatigue often did, “it might be the perfect excuse for us to have dinner together,” had begun to dissipate, “that is if you—” “—That sounds great,” he interjected with a grin, “my name is Mark.” They shook hands. “I’m Janet.” He looked closely at her dark brown eyes, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled, “Likewise,” before noticing that her glass was nearly empty, “So what are you investing in?”
Janet crossed to the sleigh bed, sat on the edge of it and removed her boots. A framed reproduction of Sanford R. Gifford’s “Hook Mountain, near Nyack, on the Hudson” was hanging on the wall above the maple roll-top desk. She pulled down her stockings and tugged them off her feet before standing to step out of her skirt. The perspective in the painting was from the eastern shore near Croton-on-Hudson where the Metro North station was now located. She crossed to the chair in front of the desk while unbuttoning her blouse. The late September woods reached the bended shore in the foreground as the still river proceeded between a thicket of trees on the right while the mountain range in the distance blended into the yellowing horizon. The clothes she draped over the back of the chair were the only ones she brought to wear. Four sailboats and a steamer were suspended in Hook Mountain’s distant reflection. She turned back the patchwork quilt and lay beneath the covers. A cloudless, cerulean blue sky mirrored the river beneath it. The smell of recently laundered sheets mingled with the perfume on her neck and perspiration beneath her arms. She thought of the conversation she had with Cindy the night before while adjusting the thick feather pillow. They cautiously discussed Cindy’s decision to have lunch with Andrew and what she should wear. The warm breeze scattered dust motes away from the sunlit window as she closed her eyes and listened to the southbound train arriving, and then departing, the nearby station. Janet recalled the awkward exchange with the locksmith who arrived just minutes after Cindy had left, as he changed the locks, and then presented her with a new set of keys. She frantically packed Cindy’s suitcase and left it outside the front door before catching a cab to Grand Central.
Pascal walked behind the bar, “your table will be ready in a moment.” Janet smiled, “make it for two Pascal,” with a nod to Mark, “he’ll be joining me.” Pascal shrugged, “not a problem,” with a slight indulgent smile. Mark cleared his throat, “Can we get another round while we’re waiting,” then added a belated, “please.” “Of course…” Pascal nodded, “another glass of Muscadet,” then turned to Mark, “and a?” He pushed the highball glass with a half-inch of melting ice, “Dewars and soda,” across the bar. “Certainly.” Mark turned to Janet and asked, “So why the need for a change of scenery?” “Spring is in the air,” Janet watched the clear white wine being poured, “and I’ve got a sentimental attachment to this town.” There was the sound of dinner plates being stacked as the kitchen door swung open and then closed behind the young waiter who quickly walked past them. “But you didn’t grow up around here?” Janet shook her head, “no I didn’t,” as the blonde woman in the dining room laughed. Mark interjected a smile into his observation, “I didn’t think so.” Janet added, “and neither did Pascal,” as he placed the drink on the coaster in front of Mark with a curt nod and then attended to the couple seated in the dining room. Warmth flooded her thighs, “although sometimes,” as she claimed, “I wish I had.” Mark tasted his drink before asking, “What’s that?” “Grown up here… where are you from?” “Long Island.” “Perhaps you should open that hotel in Beacon.” Placing his glass on the coaster, “So you’ll have another place to stay the next time you need a change of scenery?” Françoise Hardy continued singing on the small speakers built into the ceiling above the bar as Janet claimed, “sometimes change can be a very good thing.”
Janet stood beneath the awning in her beige raincoat as Mark drove up to the restaurant. She opened the door, “what a beautiful car,” and sat down. “Thank you.” The seatbelt slid across her chest as they pulled away from the curb. “Should we try and find a bar?” Janet leaned back, “I don’t want to get drunk,” already tipsy from the bottle of Échezeaux they had with dinner, “let’s go somewhere quiet where we can watch the river.” Gently stepping on the brake before the intersection, “In the car?” She nodded, “Is that okay?” He looked left and then right before taking his foot off the brake. The black BMW turned left, “there is an overlook in the park,” onto the two-lane street. Victorian houses with darkened windows and tree filled yards, white picket fences, “How would you know about that?” and telephone poles slipped past. He lowered the front windows about six inches, “that’s where I turned around… after I got the message that my client was driving his wife to the hospital,” and the spring air mingled with the leather interior. “I think you should give your secretary a raise.” The digital speedometer on the dashboard climbed as he responded, “I was going to drive back to Manhattan,” while thinking about the condoms in the glove compartment. “Well,” resting her hands, “I’m happy you decided to stop on your way back,” on the black purse in her lap. Gripping the steering wheel, “Do you want music?” “I don’t know…” she pressed her knees together, “what sort of music do you listen to?” They drove past a black and white sign indicating the posted speed.
Janet was lying on her back, “Why are you leaving,” as a pair of headlights crossed her bedroom ceiling, “if she isn’t coming back until Tuesday?” Mark stepped into the legs, “because I’ve got to,” of his designer jeans, “that’s why.” “Well,” Janet sighed, “thanks for stopping by.” “Listen I’m sorry,” he adjusted his belt in the dim light from the half-open window, “I’ve got to go.” She rolled onto her side, “At four-o’clock in the morning?” and rested her forehead in the palm of her left hand. He glanced at the faint blue dial on his diving watch, “it’s three-thirty,” a gift from her, “I should have left hours ago,” that he’d been reluctant to accept until she told him how much it cost. “Isn’t today a holiday?” She persisted as he reached for his shirt, “stay with me please…you just said—” “I’ve got to be out there,” he pushed his arms through the sleeves, “by nine,” and buttoned it up. “Stay with me,” they were both embarrassed by, “stay with me until I fall asleep,” her urgency. Shoving in the tails, “I’ve got to go uptown and shower.” She made a face, “mine works too you know.” He stepped into his shoes before leaning over the bed, “then walk Bruno,” and kissed her on the mouth. Turning her head away from his wet lips, “I hope he shits on your rug.” He walked out of the bedroom, “I’ll call you.” She said, “don’t bother,” as he crossed her living room. The front door slammed and then his rapid footfalls descended the flight of stairs. She swung her legs off the bed and crossed to the window as he bounded off the stoop just in time to wave down a passing cab.
A breeze from the open window chilled the sweat on her chest and thighs as the cab sped away. The yellow glow from the streetlight pooled on the pavement and on the hoods of the parked cars. Janet turned away from the window and discovered Esther on the end of the bed diligently licking her bushy tail. She took her camisole off a pillow and put it on while walking into the living room. After turning the locks and sliding the brass chain onto the door, she r
emoved her makeup in the bathroom mirror. Two damp cotton balls smeared with pale foundation were tossed into the empty metal garbage can beneath the sink. Sitting on the toilet seat and wiping off his semen with a wad of toilet paper before peeing. She looked down at her pale feet and dark red toenails on the black and white tiles.
Janet pulled back the top sheet and lay on the bed before pointing the remote at the television. As she adjusted the pillows behind her shoulders a terse male voice recounted the three-day hostage crisis in Beslan accompanied by a video clip of a lifeless girl in the arms of her weeping mother. She turned to a beach-front infomercial pitching energy boosting vitamin supplements, then to a music video with synchronized animated torsos gyrating in time to pulsating techno, then to handheld video footage of a massive RNC demonstration interspersed with scenes from Bush’s acceptance speech, before turning the television off.
An Older Lover –Act 1
“You know my roommate is out of town,” he shifted in the seat, “So maybe we can skip that play and go back to my apartment?” She placed her napkin on the table, “you said that you wanted to see it.” He raised his hands, “it’s probably going to be very,” and flexed his middle and index fingers back and forth to quote the word, “experimental.” She giggled, “Don’t you mean pretentious?” “Exactly.” Her thin pale arms were resting at her sides, “Is that why it’s in a gallery and not in a theater?” “Most likely,” he stuck out his chest, “I really just wanted to meet the writer because he edits the fiction for a monthly magazine and I wanted to give him a copy of that story I gave you last week.” She nodded, “that will help him put a face to your name so—” “Yeah,” he interjected, “but what if the play is terrible—” “— It’s important that we go and put in an appearance at the very least.” While scratching his chin, “we can always sneak out during the intermission.” She pressed her palms together, “besides,” while interweaving her long thin fingers, “my bed is much larger than yours.” The couple seated across from them had just been served dessert. “How would you know that?” With a smile, “I think it’s a safe assumption,” as she placed the tip of her pointed shoe along his ankle, “and wouldn’t it be more interesting for you to find out for yourself … Mr. Intrusive?” He nodded, “let’s definitely leave at intermission.” She looked at his eyes while saying, “You know I really like that short story you gave me last week.” The story of the married architect (played by their waiter) who is having an affair with a young woman (played by the striking hostess who seated them) that he met on a Friday afternoon in early June of ’01. She blinked twice, “Is it true?” They were on their lunch hour. “Sort of,” he shrugged, “I mean I took the idea from something that,” then cleared his throat, “almost happened to someone I didn’t know very well.” The young woman was treating herself, with her first real paycheck in months, to a new pair of shoes. Raising her eyebrows, “Who?” The married architect was on his way to the bistro on the corner for a light lunch. Placing the napkin on the table, “the close friend of a friend of my,” then rubbed his clammy palms on his knees, “ex-girlfriend.” Sunlight warmed her legs as she sat before a broad storefront window on Mercer Street. She sounded both defensive and jealous while asking, “That actress?” The architect pocketed his wedding band while pacing the worn granite sidewalk. The waiter crossed in front of the audience on cue and presented her with the bill, “here you are,” before returning to his seat in the front row. Her long auburn hair fell onto her shoulders as she leaned forward to try on a pair of shoes. “I’ve got it,” he claimed. She walked out of the store with her purchase beneath her right arm. Taking her wallet out of the black purse, “now don’t be silly it’s on me,” that was hanging over the back of the metal chair, “remember this was my idea.” He had spent hours crafting the concisely written dialogue between the architect and the young woman as he convinced her to join him for lunch and their conversation over a shared salad niçoise and a bottle of Alsatian pinot blanc. “Well,” leaning back in the seat, “how much is it?” She gave him her phone number as they walked back to the building on Broadway where she was temping. She examined the bill, “it’s a bit pricey considering the quality of the ingredients,” in her right hand while muttering, “but don’t worry about that.” The affair was passionate and lasted until the end of August. He began to blush, “I’ll pay for the play,” as a sheepish grin covered his face. Dinners in posh restaurants, afternoon rendezvous in her Jackson Heights apartment and one weekend in East Hampton. “And the wine was,” she looked at him closely, “how many glasses did you have?” She discovered that she was pregnant in mid-August. “As many as you did,” he held up the first three fingers of his right hand, “it was very good.” The second act of the play An Older Lover portrayed their last meeting on a Friday afternoon in early September. Placing her gold American Express Card beneath the bill, “it was twelve dollars a glass.” On a bench in Bowling Green Park, she offered her pregnancy and their relationship as a solution to his unhappy marriage. “Usually I don’t drink wine,” he drummed his fingers on the table, “but that was great,” and looked around the dining room before adding the rest of his line, “Why would he give you the bill anyway?” He refused her proposition and she decided to get an abortion as soon as possible. She wondered how he would thank her for dinner, “because I was the one who asked for it.” She made arrangements to get to the office a few hours early the following Tuesday in order to leave by noon for her one o’clock appointment at Planned Parenthood. He frowned before asking, “Don’t you think that’s rude?” She died in a cubicle when the American Airlines flight-number eleven from Boston with eighty-one passengers and eleven crew members aboard was flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center. Cindy’s wire-bound notebook was closed on her lap and the ballpoint pen was tucked between the pages. “It might be a French restaurant,” she admonished him sweetly, “but we’re not in France.” I nudged Cindy with my left elbow. He nodded, “I guess we should—” As she interjected, “are you still…” Cindy returned my smile with a wink before looking back at the stage. “I’m sorry, what were you going to say?” While the lights slowly faded to black. “No, you go ahead.”
First Friday in June
Stephanie and Karen were drinking Frascati while seated at Karen’s kitchen table. She lived in a railroad apartment across the street from the Greenpoint branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. Karen was a painter who’d just been dropped by her gallery and that disappointment had nagged at their conversation over dinner. Stephanie and Karen were close friends, partially because Stephanie wasn’t an artist, and she was one of the least cynical people that Karen knew. What was left of the grilled chicken and asparagus pasta remained on the mismatched plates before them. The yellow linoleum floor glowed beneath the circular fluorescent light in the center of the high ceiling. A framed reproduction of Bruegel’s “The Tower of Babel” hung on the wall above the green Formica table. “So what was he like,” Karen placed her glass on the table, “your architect?” Stephanie winced with a grin, “he was really charming,” and her enthusiasm was still blushingly obvious. Karen nodded encouragingly, “that sounds like a lot of fun.” “And smart…” Stephanie didn’t need much encouragement, “not self-consciously smart, but really smart.” Karen was tired of listening to her own litany of complaints, “Was it romantic?” Stephanie thought of the man who had chatted her up on a Soho street corner, “we had a bottle of wine with lunch as well,” closed her eyes and claimed, “he is so, like, drop-dead gorgeous,” then picked up her glass, “but it would be just too weird,” and sipped her fruity white wine. Karen leaned back in the chair, “you just said that you liked impulsive people.” Stephanie exclaimed, “I said I liked spontaneous people,” with a forced laugh. “No,” Karen pointed at her, “you said impulsive.” “Well,” Stephanie was still a bit tipsy from her lunch with Alan when Karen opened the bottle of Frascati, “I meant to say spontaneous…” and her initial conversation with Alan, “in a Cary G
rant kind of way…” reappeared in vibrantly contrasting fragments, “besides he’s married.” Karen shook her head, “men can be so fucking stupid.” Stephanie frowned, “of course he’s married,” while examining the strands of pasta, “and it was all pretty brazen on his part,” slivers of garlic and blots of greenish olive oil on her plate, “as well as mine for going along with it,” then looked over at Karen and quietly asked, “Are you feeling any better?” The water dripping from the kitchen faucet had filled the saucepan in the bottom of the sink. Karen ignored her question, “Do you think he’ll call you,” while thinking about the video artist that she had been dating for a month, “or do you think that,” and who had stopped returning her calls last week, “seeing him once is going to be enough?” Stephanie noted her sullen expression, “I take it that you don’t want to talk about it any more.” Karen topped off her glass with the rest of the wine before asking, “How old is he?” Stephanie hadn’t been involved with anyone since her fiancé abruptly ended their five-year relationship the year prior, claiming that he needed to be closer to his family, and moved back to London. Since then she hadn’t met anyone interesting and hadn’t really been dating. “Your age I guess,” Stephanie considered Karen’s reaction before quietly adding, “and his wife just had a baby.” “Ewww,” Karen made a face, “he’s just another creep!” “I know,” Stephanie held up her hands, “I know,” and grinned, “that was when it got really weird!” Karen prodded her, “A boy or a girl?” Stephanie sighed, “a girl… she’s three-months old,” with a skewed smile, “and no he didn’t break out the photo album.” Karen nodded, “and he’s loaded,” then coolly concluded, “unhappily married and rich.” “He didn’t seem all that unhappy to me,” she defensively stated. Karen regarded Stephanie’s dark brown eyes, “well,” bordered by long black lashes, “there’s obviously something seriously wrong with him,” her full unpainted mouth, “or it’s just some weird Oedipal thing,” and her thick wavy hair that she dyed with henna at least once a month, “So why did you go along with it?” “He made me laugh a lot,” Stephanie scratched her upper left arm, “and besides, the kid thing was initially left out,” then studied her fingernails before asking, “And how is that Oedipal when he is older than me?” Karen shrugged, “maybe you look like his mother when he was a boy,” as her speculative tone grew condescending, “and he was jealous of his younger sister.” Stephanie rolled her eyes, “I can see those therapy sessions are finally starting to pay off,” and rested her elbows on the table. “It’s good to know that I’m finally getting my money’s worth,” Karen grinned, “you know I heard a really funny joke in therapy yesterday.” She tried to remember Alan’s last name while asking, “Oh really?” “I’ll tell you later,” with a dismissive wave of her hand, “You’re not going to call him are you?”
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