“Fine.”
“Do you want to talk about your day?”
“Nope.” He shakes the die in his hand.
I nod slowly then begin. “Sometimes,” I use my most instructive, pedantic voice, “sharing can help us feel even more excited about good things that happen, and better about bad things that happen.”
“Old man’s turn to roll the dice.”
“Oh? You think you’re an old man, too?” I smile and nod. “I was just about to say that . . . but, now you go first: Why do you think you’re an old man?”
“In comparison to you I am.” He shrugs and rolls the dice.
“Hmm.” I swirl the wine in my glass and look at it, trying to figure out how to proceed. “So I think you’re like an old man because you are very set in your ways.”
“Oh yeah? How.”
“Well, you seem to have us on a more or less strict dating regimen, wherein we only see each other once a week, usually on weekends.”
“Yeah, but that’s because I have to get up so early for work.”
“I know. But that’s not . . . typical? Like, sometimes if you like spending time with someone, you might . . . I don’t know . . . see them twice a week?”
He watches me and smiles.
“What?” I moan.
“Nothing. Keep talking.” He sips his wine and swishes it through his teeth before swallowing.
“Also because you don’t seem to need . . . I don’t know . . . people? Like you’ve created your own little compact life here, in your self-proclaimed man cave,” I gesture to the room around me, “and you don’t want to . . . I don’t know, talk about real things? Like day-to-day stuff. . . . It just kinda seems like . . . you’ve got yourself, and that’s all you need.”
He watches me and nods, then turns his attention to his plate and goes back to eating. “I think it’s your turn to read me a card.”
I roll my eyes in mock—grounded in actual—frustration, and read from the deck.
“So our Trivial Pursuit up in the Catskills house is . . . maybe, thirty years outdated? Thirty-five? Anyway, it’s impossible to play with anybody except my parents. The questions are all about, like, the 1976 Olympics in Innsbruck. Or the USSR.”
“That sounds terrible,” Luke says.
“It is. But it’s also kind of fabulous getting to watch my parents play together. You’ll read a card, and the rest of us will all look around at one another scratching our heads, and my mom and dad will jump in with the right answers like it’s the lightning round. They get so excited they’re finally beating their kids at a board game. . . .”
“That’s cute.”
“This one time—my favorite time—there was a clue about some Swedish porn film, and my mom literally jumped out of her seat at the question and was like ‘Yellow!’ My brother studied the card, and my mom was like, ‘I am Curious. Also called “Yellow”!’ She was so proud of herself for getting it right, meanwhile we were all like, why does Mom know both the main and alternate titles of a Swedish porn?”
“That’s really funny,” Luke says, rolling the dice. “I’m going to call you ‘Yellow.’”
“Because I look Swedish? Or like a porn star?”
“Because your hair is yellow.”
“That’s funny, if you try to get my three-year-old niece to say her colors—‘What color is the sky? Blue,’ ‘What color is the grass? Green,’ ‘What color is Aunty Ali’s hair?’ she always says, ‘White.’”
“Nope, you’ll always be ‘Yellow’ to me.”
“I feel like you’re trying to be romantic,” I pause for effect, “but it just sounds racist . . . or dirty . . . or both?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s romance, Yellow.” He lunges over and tackles me backward to the floor, pinning my arms and reading my eyes before he kisses me.
July 1 at 5:50 p.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: YELLO
ALISON: YELLO AS IN “HELLO” OR AS IN MY MOM’S FAVORITE SWEDISH PORN? . . . OR ARE YOU TRYING TO ROMANCE ME AGAIN WITH PET NAMES?
YOUNGER LUKE: ALL THREE. LET’S SAY WE GET TOGETHER BEFORE YOU SKIP TOWN. WEDNESDAY?
This coming weekend I’m flying to Napa for Catherine’s wedding, where, I was informed two days ago, the best man and I will be the only people toasting the couple. As someone with a morbid fear of public speaking, I have spent every moment since obsessing over my maid-of-honor toast. In a frenzied panic, egged on by Blaire and Ashley at a BYOB dinner on Saturday night, I decided I would deliver my toast via a puppet show. Our giddy high based on the brilliance of this idea continued into the subsequent morning, when we met up at Michael’s arts-and-crafts store to stock up on pipe cleaners, fabric, and glue.
It was only on the subway ride to work this morning that the high started to wear off, and I started to worry that this is the worst idea ever. I’m still going to make the puppets tonight, knowing full well that I may jettison them in favor of a more traditional speech by tomorrow morning. But I desperately need a second opinion on my speech.
Meanwhile, Nicole’s advice is ringing in my ears: Find a way to engage Younger Luke in your real life. Push him to give advice, show thought. He may be incapable of moving this forward on his own, so push him to emote, or to at least be supportive.
July 3 at 12:31 p.m.
Hey Luke,
Saturday after I left your place, this week’s bride-to-be left me a voice mail asking if I could toast her at the wedding. More specifically, if I could “you know, do something different or creative, like rhyme.”
Naturally, I wrote a puppet show.
Given that the only person who worked on this thing is me, I could really use a second pair of eyes. And since yours don’t know the bride & groom, or the audience, I thought maybe you could provide some feedback/constructive criticism. Anyway, drop a line if you wouldn’t mind giving the script a quick read.
I may literally die of stage fright on Saturday. In which case, it was nice knowing you. . . .
Cheers,
Alison
July 3 at 12:57 p.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: GOT YOUR EMAIL. LOVE THE PUPPET IDEA. . . LOVE IT. BUT YES IT COULD BOMB TREMENDOUSLY. SEND IT MY WAY. I’LL DUST OFF MY RED PENS FROM MY DAYS ON THE UDUB NEWSPAPER.
July 3 at 7:12 p.m.
Hey Alison,
Well, it’s certainly going to be memorable. I spent my lunch break going over it, my edits are attached.
Lot of pressure though, you sure you’re up for it?
L
July 3 at 11:10 p.m.
Stop it! You are stressing me out MORE! Shouldn’t you be saying, “Well, Alison, you are so massively talented and funny that if anyone could pull this off, it would be you . . .”? Shame on you for contributing to my impending sense of doom!
But thank you for the edits.
Cheers,
Alison
P.S. My, my, someone’s a stickler.
With the Googly Eyes: Older Luke
Wednesday morning in the Armory Drill Hall, I hop off the boom lift and shed my harness for a coffee break. I pull out my phone to find a text from Older Luke.
July 5 at 9:16 a.m.
OLDER LUKE: KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED, I PLAN TO SEND YOU A SELF-DEPRECATING EMAIL SOMETIME THIS MORNING.
July 5 at 11:37 a.m.
Hey Alison,
I’m not on call until Friday. Are you free tomorrow night?
I’ve been thinking a lot about your work situation. I appreciate how open and candid you’ve been with me, and I hope I helped you talk through some of the difficult issues you’re facing. That said, I think I’ve come up with a couple additional points you should make to Joanne, either before your annual review or during it. Rather than write them all out, maybe we can discuss them when we next get together. Also, I’m confident this is just a temporary stumbling block. You are immensely bright and talented; anyone can see that. Joanne will too, someday.
Now for the awkward part, I’m pretty sure in your 27 years of livin
g you’ve never heard something this goofy. There is always a first, though. Here it is: I have a problem with initiating hand-holding/kissing. But, only with you. I know, how weird. Let me explain. It’s because I think I could really like you. Whenever I feel that way about someone, this happens. Meaning that it seems like I know that I’m going to enjoy anything physical with you, so I want to make sure the other stuff is there first. Almost like, since I do like you, I have too much respect for you and this happens. Who goes on nine dates (I think that’s the number) and doesn’t even initiate hand-holding? What a schmuck!
I definitely don’t feel the need to talk about this with you, I just wanted to put it out there so you don’t think I’m not a physical person or that I don’t enjoy showing affection. I actually do, a great deal. Verbalizing this helps me see how silly this is and will help me overcome it. At any rate, it would be nice to be more affectionate with you someday and who knows, maybe I’ll even try!
I have to say that I find your company to be exciting and soothing at the same time. Maybe I can bring this paragraph around with a good ending: Alison, you should know that you have really beautiful bright blue eyes, so it’s a little hard not to get mesmerized at times and lose track of what we’re talking about. ;-)
Let me know if Wednesday works, as always I’ll look forward to seeing you. The Brooklyn Bridge was nice, thanks for walking along it with me last night.
-Luke
July 5 at 5:36 p.m.
Rushing off to tutoring right now, but didn’t want to let your email go unresponded to:
<
Ha. That’s what I was thinking!
Just kidding. . . . Actually, I was holding Jason responsible -- I thought it was his whole “Alison is a VEEEERRRRYYY sloooooow dater” comment that scared you off. Interesting to learn that it was just me scaring you off.
At any rate, thanks for sharing. In a humorous fashion. This was a good read and I shall cherish it forever in my “keeper emails” folder. ;)
Look forward to seeing you tomorrow.
Cheers,
Alison
July 6 at 8:11 a.m.
OLDER LUKE: HEY, IT’S THE SCHMUCK. JUST WANTED TO GIVE YOU A NERDY HELLO. HOW GOES THE WORK, AND DO YOU STILL WANT TO GET TOGETHER TONIGHT?
ALISON: I’M SWAMPED WITH ARTS & CRAFTS. IN LIEU OF ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING SOCIAL, THOUGH, WE COULD WATCH A MOVIE OR TV WHILE I SIT ON THE FLOOR AND GLUE CLOTHING ON MY BRIDE AND GROOM PUPPETS?
ALISON: P.S. IF EVER THERE WERE A TIME THAT I MADE OUR AGE DIFFERENCE FEEL VAST, I’M THINKING TONIGHT’S THAT TIME. . . .
I’m sitting on the floor of Older Luke’s apartment, gluing googly eyes down on my paper bag puppets next to Boomer, who keeps trying to eat their yarn hair. Luke is sitting on the couch behind me, occasionally kneading my shoulders or upper back with his fists as we watch Doctor Zhivago.
“Do you think I need to cut out an additional costume change? For the final scene, when they have puppet babies?”
“I think that would be cute, but not necessary.”
“Well, my hand hurts from all the cutting, so I think they’re just going to have to birth their puppet babies in their wedding attire.”
“How many costumes did you already make?”
“They each have three, not including the original ones, which are glued down.”
“I’d say that’s plenty. Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”
“No, I’m good.” I pause and look up from my gluing. “But you did a really good job coloring in puppet Andrew’s Speedo!” I encourage.
“Thanks, I guess I’m just a natural.” He smiles. Our eyes lock, and now would be a good time for him to lean in and act on his last email. But . . . nothing.
“Well, it’s after midnight.” I start brushing my supplies off his coffee table and into my canvas tote bag. “I should probably go. How much time is left in the movie?”
He pauses it to check. “Less than five minutes, actually.”
“Okay. I think I can wait that long.” I stand up and stretch my legs and back. Boomer has again drooled all over my pants, and though this is mildly revolting, I am trying to learn to embrace it. And to do laundry more frequently. I clamber onto the couch cushion next to Older Luke. Still . . . nothing.
The credits start rolling. “Okay. Now it’s really time for me to get going.” I stand up. “I’ll . . . see you sometime after the weekend?”
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
“You don’t have to.” I shrug.
“It’s really late. Come on, I’ll walk you home.” We grab our coats and head off into the night. We’ve walked all eight blocks to my apartment and still . . . nothing. No hand-holding. No arm-grazing. And yet I’m too nervous myself to take any initiative. Also, I feel like based on his email, he wants that initiative to come from him anyway.
We stand on my front stoop. I lean in to give him a hug. “Okay, well . . . it was good to see you again! Thanks for helping with my crafting. . . . Sorry if that was kind of boring for you. And juvenile. I just needed to get it done befo—”
“—Sorry, I just have to do this.” And finally, after ten dates, Older Luke kisses me.
My stomach flips, but I think only because this moment has been so oddly built up, I’m anxious to finally get it over with. The kiss is gentle, and sweet. It’s not bad, but it’s not filled with fireworks either.
“Gosh I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he says quietly.
I nod and smile. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”
He kisses me again, hands me my bag of puppets and gives my hand a squeeze, and watches me step inside.
And He Can’t Even Spell: Younger Luke
July 7 at 2:17 p.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: HOPE YOU FIND SOME TIME TO GET SIDEWAYS OUT THERE. YOU GOT TOMORROW IN THE BAG (PUN INTENDED).
It’s Friday, and after a long flight and drive to the midday wedding rehearsal, we have the afternoon to ourselves. Cassie and I decide to bike and wine-taste our way through Napa. The sun is shining, there are beautiful vineyards all around us, and though we only have a few hours until the rehearsal dinner, it somehow feels like a true vacation.
“So, we don’t have to talk about this now, but . . . how are you going to decide between the Lukes?” Cassie asks as we lounge on the grass by V. Sattui Winery.
“I have no idea.”
“You want to make a mental pro and con list?”
“They’re just too different. It’s not apples to apples. As Ashley would say, it’s ‘apples to donkeys.’”
“They’re not that different.”
“They are, though!” I protest. “It’s like, if I want someone who is supportive, and thoughtful, and really smart, and kind to my friends and the people around him . . . that’s Older Luke.”
“But Younger Luke’s smart.”
“Not really. Not in the same way. He has an undergrad degree in journalism and he can’t even spell. And I don’t think he likes his job, or finds it rewarding or challenging, and I don’t think he’ll ever feel compelled to change jobs.” I sigh and concede, “He’s sharp and witty, but he doesn’t like to think about things deeply. Or at all. We make each other laugh and laugh and laugh, and we can talk for hours on the phone at night about nothing. And the chemistry is . . . more than palpable. It’s . . . electric, and exciting . . . but also scary, because it’s . . . eerily addictive. I’ve never had that before.”
“Why scary?”
“I feel like—I feel like a girl . . . or a woman or a female or whatever, but you know, someone who has to think before she texts a guy back or says something that might be taken the wrong way. With Older Luke, and everyone else I’ve ever dated in my life, I don’t care what they think of me. I mean, I care, but, I don’t . . . worry? Or . . . strike that: I don’t care. I don’t worry about what happens if I . . . say one thing that rubs them the wrong way, or makes them freak out, or end it. I told him I honestly think I might get fired.
I would never confide that in Younger Luke—what would he think of me? With Older Luke, I am who I am, and if he doesn’t like it . . . ‘tant pis,’ as the French say. With Younger Luke, I feel like I have to try. And it’s so exhausting!” I quickly add, “And yes, I am aware I’m whining. Sorry.” I pout.
“But that’s what dating is like. Or what it’s always been like for me. You always date friends, so you know you can be yourself right off the bat, and forever. This is . . . kind of how it is?”
“But it wasn’t that way with James or Older Luke. Why is it that way with Younger Luke and only Younger Luke?”
“He’s different.” Cassie shrugs. “Everyone else you mentioned wants to be in a relationship. . . . Well, scratch that. Everyone else you mentioned thinks they want to be in a relationship, even if they don’t know how to do that . . . or don’t have fully formed amygdalas or hippocampuses. Younger Luke, on the other hand, can take it or leave it. So even if there’s no one else in the picture, you seem to think he’d be just as happy being single as dating—be it you or anyone else.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I mean, I do think that’s true. Annnnd?”
“Well that’s . . . different. You know I couldn’t date someone like that. I’d run in and try to change him, and force him into a reliable, affectionate, steady boyfriend. We’d have had The Talk by now, and I would have made him meet all my friends, maybe even my parents.”
I laugh out loud, impressed by how well Cassie knows herself. “You WOULD!” I agree teasingly. “I wish I could,” I sigh, “but he’s just different. Which also makes it hard to compare them. You know, Older Luke calls or texts every day. And if I’d let him, he’d probably try to see me every day, too. Younger Luke has me on this strict once—max twice—a week schedule . . . and it’s cool by him if two or three days go by without communicating. . . .”
“But you and I are different. And if you don’t need those things, then it can work. But it’s going to be different from every other relationship you’ve had, because he may never want to see you on a weeknight. Even if you project forward two years and you’re living together, or married, you might just be one of those couples who love each other but do most things independently.”
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