Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “I know. . . . I try to help her, but I can’t totally relate, because it was, like, three dates. I feel like you can’t let yourself get hung up on three dates. But I need to try to be sympathetic, if not empathetic. . . . What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you . . . I don’t know, ever get the blues? Or . . . get sad?” I add quickly, “Outwardly you’re very stoic.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. More . . . pensive than sad or blue.”

  “So what do you do when you get . . . pensive? Do you . . . talk to people, or rage, or . . .”

  “I don’t know. I . . .” Luke has music playing faintly in the background, so his words are hard to hear, and I miss the second half of the sentence.

  “Puffy paints?” I repeat. And then before he can reply, I fabricate my own version of what Luke must do when he’s “pensive.” “So, you, like, stock up on old sweatshirts and canvas bags, and you paint pictures of really sad things. Like wilting flowers . . . and blind three-legged dogs?” I laugh at my own joke.

  “No, huff paints. I huff paints.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m kidding, you know.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I knew that. Well,” I say defensively, “I liked my coping mechanism better. I’m picturing you with your neon puffy paints, decorating sweatshirts you sell on Etsy.” And once again, the conversation devolves into giddy laughter and joke one-upmanship.

  That Friday, my phone vibrates on my desk in the office.

  August 11 at 3:13 p.m.

  LUKE: TELL ME A JOKE.

  ALISON: TOO MUCH PRESSURE. YOU’RE GIVING ME STAGE FRIGHT.

  LUKE: C’MON. I COULD USE A GOOD LAUGH . . .

  ALISON: OK, HERE GOES. BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU SEEM REALLY STRESSED ABOUT WORK THIS WEEK, AND BECAUSE I’M REALLY NICE.

  ALISON: CUTE LIL SNAIL ENTERS THE INDY 500. HIRES A DESIGN TEAM TO PAINT & BEDAZZLE HIS CAR WITH S’S ALL OVER. CAR IS MUCH ADMIRED BY ALL. BUT WHAT’S WITH THE S MOTIF?

  LUKE: I’M ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT HERE . . .

  ALISON: HE CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR THEM ALL SAY, “WOW! LOOK AT THAT S CAR GO!” . . .

  ALISON: UMM. SO. THAT’S WAY BETTER IN PERSON. YOU TRY TELLING A JOKE VIA TEXT. IT’S HARD!

  LUKE: NOT TOO SHABBY, ALSY.

  LUKE: I’VE ACTUALLY HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE. IT’S MY DAD’S FAVORITE. BUT YOU DID WELL UNDER PRESSURE. I NEEDED THAT.

  ALISON: ROUGH DAY?

  LUKE: WILL BE BETTER WHEN I SEE YOU TONIGHT.

  I’m lying in his bed flipping through a Rolling Stone I took off his nightstand. “Don’t get mad, but I think I tracked sand into your bed!” I call out to him.

  “I told you riverside drinking can be dangerous!” he calls out from the bathroom.

  He takes a running start out of the bathroom and dives across the room onto the bed next to me. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Jason was right.” I stick my nose into his chest. “You do smell good.”

  “Yeah, that was kinda funny, how he kept telling me that all night.”

  “I thought he might be hitting on you. Uh-oh, are you gonna leave me for Jason?”

  “I don’t know, he seems like a pret-ty cool guy.” He smiles. “But seriously, I’m actually glad you let him tag along. He’s cool. I’m glad I met him finally.”

  “Yeah, he liked you, too.”

  “Good location choice, too. It was fun to, you know, see you in a different setting. Running around, being all cute, playing volleyball with me and Jason and a bunch of strangers.”

  “Isn’t that bar the best?” I marvel. “I just love it there. Highlight of every summer.”

  “So. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Oh yeah. What’s that?” I prop myself up on an elbow, mirroring his posture.

  “I got some test results back this week that you might care about.”

  “The CFA?” I gasp.

  “No. Oh, no I already got those back. I passed.” I cock my head, why didn’t you tell me? “I’m clean. No HIV or gonorrhea . . . or anything else for me.”

  He smiles, and I smile. And then my nerves tense, and I swallow. “I’m . . . really glad you got tested. So thanks for doing that, but I guess I still need, like, a tiny bit more time to feel . . . ready.”

  He nods and kisses my forehead. “Okay.”

  “I’m actually fine talking about it, in fact maybe we should talk about it. I just . . . think there needs to be more of a—”

  “—No, we don’t need to talk about it. Take your time.”

  “—Okay, but . . . actually, I’d like to talk abou—”

  “—We can do other things. Let’s not talk about it right now,” he says, then kisses me deeply.

  I melt. These passionate kisses, the grazes, the gropes, the grabs—they’re going to be the end of me. “Luke, I just . . .” My heart beats ever faster. “I need to hear—”

  “Shhh.” He nuzzles into my neck, gently nibbling at the skin. Then he reaches for the corner of the afghan blanket at the foot of his bed, throws it over me, climbs underneath it, and starts kissing my ankles and working his way up my body.

  “You want anything?” I call to Nicole from the fridge.

  “Nah. I’ve got yogurt. Maybe a glass of water though?”

  “Sure thing.” I fill two glasses and move to join her on the couch. I put the glasses on the table, sigh dramatically, and sink into the couch beside her. “Well, that’s it. I’m a goner.”

  She laughs lightly. “It was just a matter of time. That much was clear weeks ago.”

  I perk up. “How can I kick this?”

  “Sometimes you can’t,” she says, licking her yogurt spoon.

  “Is it possible? . . . like, any chance at all, if miniscule? . . . that he gets as nervous, or charged, around me as I get around him?”

  “It’s possible,” Nicole concedes, “but not very likely.”

  “Ugh. I don’t know what to do,” I lament.

  “It’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “It is. At least for me. It’s like I have first-day-of-school jitters again. Except every single day. Even when I’m not seeing him that day.”

  “Do you feel jittery when you’re actually around him?”

  “Sometimes yes. But usually no. I actually feel pretty normal—jubilant and normal—when I’m on the phone with him, or hanging out with him . . . it’s just all the time in between that’s frickin’ miserable.” I add, “And because I only see him once or maybe twice a week tops, I feel miserable and jittery, like, 95 percent of the week. Ahhhhhhh, this sucks,” I grumble.

  “You do look skinnier.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore . . . and I love food,” I grouse.

  “Maybe you should talk about it with someone who could help.”

  “No.” I bat the idea away with a wave of my hand. “I don’t have the time for that. Or the money.”

  “I didn’t mean it quite that way. I meant, like . . . what about Older Luke?”

  Once it became clear I was gravitating toward Younger Luke, my flurry of correspondence with Older Luke necessarily tapered. However, I recently decided that enough time had elapsed that we might be able to be friends. I suggested as much via email, and he seemed flattered and pleased with the suggestion. So now we’re running buddies. One or two afternoons a week, we circle the outer loop of Central Park while chatting about work and news, or gossiping about my friends and their dating lives. But until now, we haven’t touched the subject of our own personal lives.

  “Would it be . . . weird if I told you about an . . . emotional . . . hiccup . . . I’ve been having lately?”

  “Why would that be weird?”

  “Well, because it revolves around my dating life.” I keep my eyes focused on the pavement.

  “No, that’s not weird. Or it shouldn’t be. I consider myself a very good listener.”

  “I know. And you are! And . . . that’s why I thought maybe I could run it by you. Lik
e you could . . . shed insight? Or help?”

  “Is it anything serious? Or . . . what’s up?”

  “No, it’s not serious. Just . . . I’ve been really on edge lately. Not, like, angry on edge. Or frightened on edge. More like jittery. I feel like I can’t get my heart rate to quit soaring, like I’m always waiting for something to go dramatically wrong.”

  “If it’s anxiety you’re experiencing, I could refer you to someone. You know, to talk to professionally. Or to prescribe you something.”

  “No.” I sigh. “I don’t think I need to talk to anyone professional. Well, other than you. So long as you’re comfortable with this. . . . If you’re not, please say so and I will stop talking immediately.” I mime turning a key to lock my mouth shut.

  “Sure. I can definitely talk to you about it. But if you wanted meds . . . or more regular sessions, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “No. It’s not like that. Well, it’s two things. Hang on, hill.”

  I wait until we’ve finished ascending the hill so I can regain my breath. “Okay, sorry. First of all, I’m really only anxious because of him. Like, if he vanished, ‘poof,’” I mime tossing a puff into the air, “I think my heart rate would just . . . plummet back to normal.” I frown at this, knowing it’s true. How, or why, can someone I’m so attracted to make me feel like I’ve become unhinged? “And second, I think if you had a Magic 8 Ball, that would serve me better than meds. Maybe make me go back to normal?”

  “How do you mean?” He turns his head to look at me, then faces forward again as we keep jogging.

  “Is this one of those things where you don’t know what a Magic 8 Ball is? Like a Ring Pop? . . . Luke, it’s like a crystal ball that gives you answers. About the future.”

  He laughs. “Yes, I know what a Magic 8 Ball is, Alison.”

  “Well . . . I just want to know: Is this going to hit the fan as hard as I’m bracing for? Because if so, I should get out while I can. Before it ends in tears. And if not, maybe I can breathe, and . . . you know, enjoy the relationship a little more. Or at least the summer a little more. I’ve never felt anxious or nervous for no reason.”

  “Maybe focus on asking yourself, ‘What’s the worst that can happen here?’ I’m not trying to minimize what you’re feeling, but if it did, say, ‘hit the fan hard,’ it wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?”

  “No,” I admit. “My brain knows that. I just need my body to get with the program and understand that, too.”

  “Have you thought about trying to decompress? Like do yoga or something?”

  “Yeah, I took up yoga with Cassie a few weeks ago hoping it would do the trick . . .”

  “And?”

  “No dice,” I sigh.

  “Maybe you’re doing it wrong.”

  “I know I’m doing it wrong. I’m that girl, who sits in the way way back of the room, and the instructor still manages to spot me and call out, ‘Good. Good, everyone. Hold that pose. Oh, wait! Except you. You there, in the back of the room! You’re doing it all wrong!’”

  He laughs. “Maybe that’s a good metaphor for how you’re handling this current relationship. Aren’t you supposed to focus on your breathing, your core, your chi, or whatever. There’s no such thing as competitive yoga, right?”

  “Ugh, you’re no help,” I say flatly. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Oh? You’ve recognized the problem? You’ve taken up yoga? You’re on the right track’. . .?” I nod with enthusiasm.

  “I don’t know, you seemed pretty relaxed and mellow to me when we were . . . dating. Can you get back to that part of yourself? Or try to channel it?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the doctor. Can you tell me how to do that? Please?”

  August 15 at 8:01 p.m.

  LUKE: HEY. I COULD USE A NIGHT OFF. WANNA DO SOMETHING THURSDAY??

  I can’t help but beam when I read this. Two nights in one week? PROGRESS!

  ALISON: YES TO THURSDAY. I HAVE BEN’S FRIEND’S CONCERT DOWNTOWN FROM 8-9. WANNA COME WITH OR MEET AFTER?

  LUKE: YEAH MIGHT DO THAT. AM GONNA TRY TO GET TO THE GYM NOW. FEELING FLACID - SUCH A GREAT WORD. WILL CALL AFTER.

  ALISON: SWOON! I MEAN - LIKE, WHOA - YOU’RE PRACTICALLY A MODERN-DAY CYRANO, THROWING AROUND WORDS LIKE “FLACCID” IN TEXTS TO THE LADIES . . .

  LUKE: AND MIS-SPELLING IT, TOO! THANKS FOR THE SLY CORRECTION. YOU’RE FUNNY.

  In a glorious turn of events, Luke not only comes to the concert, but he joins me and my girlfriends for drinks beforehand. After, he and I find the nearest restaurant and sit down for a (very) late dinner.

  Our martinis arrive at the same time as our food, and I pick mine up first. “I know you’re not big on group activities, or staying out late on a school night, so I just want to say thanks for coming out. That was pretty cool of you, and pretty fun for me.”

  He lifts his glass to meet mine. “Alright, cheers.” He smiles, clinking glasses. “Cheers,” he says again, to himself. “It’s such a funny word.”

  “Isn’t it like . . . ‘cheers!’” I raise a fist in the air, cheerleader style.

  “Oh. I guess so. I never thought of it that way. But you know that guy at the office I can’t stand?”

  “The Squeak?”

  “Yeah, the Squeak.” He laughs. “You’re a good listener.”

  I shrug.

  “Anyway, the Squeak always says ‘Cheers.’ Like, ‘Cheers.’ ‘Cheers!’” Luke says in a girlie voice.

  “Is he British? Or Australian?”

  “No, he’s just really annoying.”

  “But I say cheers.”

  “Yeah, but when . . . like . . . toasting. Which is normal.”

  “I also use it in emails all the time.”

  “I know, and I thought you were lame, too, the first time I got your email.”

  “Hey!” I scowl.

  “But now I know you, and it’s cute when you say it. Also, you never say it, you only write it. He says it when he hangs up the phone.”

  “Oh that is weird,” I say, in mock judgment. “Except now I need to come up with a new e-signature. . . .” I sigh.

  Something in our conversation over dinner convinced Luke that he needed to see photos of my work in the Armory. Immediately. So now we’re back in his apartment, I am seated on his lap in front of his computer and clicking through the photos of the rooms I’ve worked on and the murals I’ve exposed.

  He hiccups.

  “Was that a hiccup?”

  He shakes his head no without saying a word.

  “It totally was. And now you’re holding your breath.” I point my finger at him accusatorially. “Luke, this level of drinking cannot continue. For either of us!”

  “Especially,” he hiccups, “if we’re now doing it on weeknights.” He hiccups again.

  Luke’s sister and her family are driving up to visit today, and Luke asked me to spend the day with them. (My heart nearly exploded.) When I get out of the shower and am toweling off my hair in his bedroom, I pause and listen more closely to the music playing on his speakers. He’s hunting for clothing in his wardrobe on the opposite side of the room when I ask, “Is this,” pointing my forefinger in the air, “you?”

  He walks over to me and wraps me in his arms. “You said you wanted to hear my music. Or Nat Rivers’s music.” He smiles.

  “I did. I do.” I smile and search his eyes. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  “Here.” He walks over to his desk then back to me. “I burned you a CD of it. You know, in case you want to listen to more.”

  “Of course I will. Luke,” I pause, again pointing up to the speakers, “You’re really good.”

  Luke’s sister is almost as easy to talk to as mine. As I help her unpack the toys and the Pack ’n Play for her twins, she asks me all about my job and tells me about hers.

  “These little guys,” Luke says from across the room, where he’s playing with the twins and their father, “they are nothing if not easy to amuse.” Luke
’s sister and I finish unpacking and walk over to join the play circle.

  “It’s like they can fixate on anything. We should monetize this somehow, like make a new line of video games aimed at babies. Like . . . Wii Door,” he says as one of the twins repeatedly opens and shuts the red kitchen cabinet closest to the ground.

  “Or, Wii Light Switch,” I suggest, nodding my head toward the other twin who has been standing on a chair, aided by his father, for the last five minutes flipping the light switch on and off. “Or Wii Fan. The possibilities are endless.”

  The adults all laugh audibly, politely, at my joke. “See?” Luke says, “I told you she was funny.” And inexplicably, my stomach knots itself again.

  While we’re standing on the subway platform waiting for the L train, Brady, the twin who I’m holding, gets his fingers caught in my hair.

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry he did that. Braaaady,” his mother sings.

  “No, it’s totally fine. It was my fault for not pulling it back when playing with toddlers.”

  “Hey, Brady!” Luke commands in a whisper, “I know she has pretty hair. But quit trying to steal my woman.”

  I blush.

  At that moment, Brady’s pacifier drops out of his mouth and onto the subway platform. Luke bends down to pick it up. He hands it back to his sister. “Ick. Sorry about that.” Commotion ensues as his sister and brother-in-law debate how they can survive a whole day without a pacifier. “What do you need to do to . . . clean it off?” Luke asks.

  “I don’t know. Find disinfectant, maybe just find a store and buy a new pacifier.”

  Wordlessly, Luke pops the pacifier into his mouth to suck off any residues or germs.

  “Oh my goodness.” Luke’s sister clutches her hand to her heart. “Brady, look! Isn’t Uncle Luke the best uncle there is? How nice is Uncle Luke??” She and her husband praise Luke for having “saved the day.”

  Luke turns to me. “See? I care about people. Hermit, my ass.”

  “You are not kissing me ever again,” I say, teasing.

  “I’m sorry . . .” I clench my jaw and unclench it, focusing my eyes on the gray laminate conference table before me, trying not to meet Joanne’s cutting gaze. “. . . But I’m not sure I entirely understand. What does that mean, ‘on notice?’” Is that, like, being fired? Or being pre-fired?