by Ariella Papa
“Of course,” I said. I remembered being allowed to stay up really late, while my uncle and father hooted over every play, plates of keftedes coming out of the oven, my father picking me up and twirling me in the air when our team got a goal.
She nodded as if she was proving something to me. Maybe she was.
“Can we just—” I shook my head and looked around the restaurant “—talk, you know, just about now.”
“Okay,” she said. And we did.
She told me about her kids and her job. She showed me pictures of her beautiful dark-eyed children that looked like they were old souls trapped in young bodies. I told her about my writing. She said she had read a few of my pieces. She even quoted things to me from my scathing review of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I was flattered and kept laughing with her, realizing that she had my uncle’s sense of humor, my aunt’s face, and whether or not I wanted to accept it, a smile like Cristina’s. I had a wonderful time with her, but sometimes it sort of hurt to look at her.
At the end of the night, she walked me to the subway.
“Now, you’re sure you don’t want to come over for some Italian pastry? They make it really good around here.”
“Next time,” I said.
She nodded like she wasn’t really sure she believed that I meant it, but I think I did.
“Okay, next time. Safe home.”
We hugged.
“Thanks,” I said, and went down the steps to the subway that would take me back to Manhattan.
I was more excited the following night about meeting Paul at Esme’s Eatery. He was standing outside the West Village restaurant with a bouquet of sunflowers, not the small ones that you see outside delis, but four big flowers that probably needed their own seat in the place.
He smiled as I came up to him. I liked how he was looking at me. I was looking at him, too. And he looked good! His hair was cut short, so his face seemed more square. His brown eyes appeared hazel because he was wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt that was green and brown plaid, and brown cotton pants. I wondered about his thigh. I had to force myself to stop thinking about it.
He surprised me with a bear hug. He was so much bigger than me. He had to be about six foot two, but he was just there, you know, present, solid.
He bent to kiss me on the cheek. I flushed, remembering how I had kissed him in front of my apartment. He handed me the flowers, ceremoniously.
“Why, thank you,” I said.
“You look great,” he said. It was matter-of-fact.
He was much more at ease than I was. I didn’t know what to say. I had already thanked him for the flowers.
“Should we go in?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. He held the door for me.
The restaurant was small and lit by candles in small brown paper bags. I find that most New York restaurants are too tiny; you’re trying to have a conversation, but you can’t help eavesdropping on the people next to you who might as well be sitting in your lap. This place, though, had only about a dozen or so tables. Most of them were for two people. There were a couple of four-seaters and one big round table for six. There was also a wood-burning stove that had been filled with candles. They had used the space really well and it seemed the joint was filled with people on third dates.
“What’s your name, please?” the hostess asked us, after chatting with a couple near the door.
“Pavlopoulos, I have an eight o’clock.” I couldn’t reveal that I was from NY BY NIGHT. I didn’t want any special treatment.
“Right this way.” She helped me with my chair and handed us menus. She gestured to the flowers. “They’re lovely. I’ll bring you a vase. Enjoy your evening.”
“Nice place,” Paul said, looking at me over the menu.
I realized right then that I wanted this to work. I wasn’t sure what work meant, but I wanted to leave tonight with this good feeling.
I put the sunflowers in the vase the hostess brought and we ordered a nice Australian bottle of wine. The food was wonderful. I had ratatouille-stuffed octopus with chickpea fries, and Paul had pea risotto. I got halibut and he ordered a steak. I told him about the assignment I had been working on about the blackout. A magazine had hired me to write captions for some photographs from all over the city. He told me about all kinds of fire calls he had been on. Neither one of us mentioned September eleventh, which had just passed, or where he had been two years ago on that day.
We ate slowly and no one rushed us. The servers were attentive without being overbearing.
“They got a real nice thing going,” I said after we had been there for almost two hours.
“You think it’s them,” Paul asked, winking. “Or us?”
I smiled. He reached across the table and took my hand. I wasn’t used to so much physical contact and yet the past couple of days had been full of hand holding.
“You want some dessert? Maybe some coffee. I bet you like coffee. You Greek types. Excuse me, Cypriot.”
I liked that he had corrected himself.
“Was everything okay?” the woman who had seated us asked.
“Yes, perfect,” I said.
“The food was excellent,” Paul said. As he said it, a man wearing a chef’s coat and plaid pants came out of the kitchen and slipped his arm around the waist of the woman.
“Great job,” Paul said to the man.
“Thanks, we’re glad you liked it. We hope you come back,” the chef said. As he spoke, the woman looked at him smiling.
“My steak was so tender.”
“Thanks. Ben’s a great cook,” the woman said.
“That’s for sure,” I said. “Are you Esme?”
“No,” she said. She smiled a shy smile. “I’m Rebecca. We just named this place after someone who is very dear to us.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job.”
“And this is her second job,” Ben said.
He kissed her cheek, and I felt like they saw only each other.
“She teaches third graders all day,” he added.
“Wow!” I said. “That’s a lot of time on your feet.”
She and Ben smiled at us and each other, and I had a feeling Ben knew how to give her a good foot massage.
“It’s their first time here,” Rebecca said to Ben. “You know what that means.”
“Dessert is on the house,” Ben said, smiling.
“I suggest his chocolate cake,” Rebecca said, and winked at me.
I left the restaurant full of food and a good feeling. I felt like I’d stepped into one of those perfume ads where everyone rolls around and seems to be in love. I coveted the way Ben and Rebecca looked at each other. I had all but given up on finding that. It hadn’t bothered me that I might spend my life alone. I had accepted that. I enjoyed being by myself. I wasn’t full of surprises. But with Paul’s solid arm around me as we walked up Hudson Street it seemed like my life was changing.
“What’s on your mind?” Paul asked.
“Just the meal,” I lied (sort of).
“It was good.” He squeezed my shoulder. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that kiss you gave me the night of the Great Blackout.”
I laughed at the way he said that, like he was a newscaster. I wasn’t sure what to say. Should I say I liked it too? Should I blame it on the booze? Should I say that that was what had made the blackout so great?
But before I could say anything, he stopped at the Don’t Walk sign on 14th Street and he kissed me. I’ve been kissed now by four different men, but I felt that kiss in the back of my knees.
He stopped kissing me to put his hands in my hair and pull my face close to him and kiss my temple. I could only squeeze his forearms. I felt drunker than I had a few minutes ago. I felt wonderful, but a little sick. Then I did something I never did: I invited him back to my place.
Of all the nights for Armando and Kelly to decide to bond it had to be that night. Armando should have been working, and Kelly? Didn’t Kelly have a night
shoot? But there they were sitting in the living room watching an ER repeat. Kelly’s mouth hung open, and Armando stood and kind of sized Paul up, which I found endearing. Paul was unfazed by our audience.
“You remember Paul,” I heard myself say in a shaky voice. And then all strung together I finished with “PaulthisisKellyandArmando. Can I get you a beer?”
“That would be great.”
I went into the kitchen, my heart now beating in my stomach; only one of my armpits was sweating. I took two bottles out of the fridge. Kelly was in the kitchen with me almost immediately. Another reason to have roommates: silent, delirious jumping-for-joy in unison.
“Do you want us to go somewhere?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. She was holding on to me, kind of bouncing.
Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.
“I don’t know. No, no. Just stay.”
“Okay,” she said quickly. “Just be cool.”
We went back into the living room where Armando and Paul were watching a music video. I handed Paul his beer. He thanked me and moved over on the love seat that Kelly had vacated, so that I could sit next to him. I did. Immediately he started running his hands through my hair. It was so casual. No one else seemed as surprised by it as I was. Armando offered me some wine and I accepted.
“Hey, Voula,” Paul said when he had finished his beer. “Can I see your office?”
“Sure,” I said, standing up a little too quickly. I glanced at Kelly, who had her lips pursed, trying not to smile. I knew if I looked at her for too long I would give something away.
In my office, Paul examined the still-dark burned walls. He put his hands against the surface and shook his head.
“You’re here under better circumstances, this time,” I said.
“It could be a lot worse, you know. I mean, of course, you’re all okay—but it could be much worse. How’s Armando’s room?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been in there since it happened,” I said. Then I smiled. “But it must be okay, because other people have.”
“And your room?”
“Oh, no one goes in there.”
He laughed. “I meant, was there any damage?”
“No, no damage.” I shook my head. And then, because I couldn’t help myself and I felt this force pulling me toward him, toward the inevitable, I said, “Do you want to see it?”
“I’m not sure I’m that kind of boy.”
“Oh, okay, never mind.” I felt like suddenly I’d turned into Ally McBeal. It was so not me. Could I get a do-over?
“No, I’m teasing. Of course I want to see it.”
He took my hand and led me into my room. He closed the door behind us. He stood looking around. I had pictures from Georgia O’Keeffe and a silver Greek cross. Did I seem too sexual? Or too religious? I cared so much about what he thought. Why were my walls this odd off-white color?
“I like your room,” he said. “It’s very you.”
He smiled at me. He pushed my hair behind my ear. I wanted so badly for him to kiss me, but he just kept looking at me. It was almost more than I could take.
“You’re very pretty, Voula. You’re very a lot of things.”
I laughed and covered my face.
He took my hand away. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” I said. “I just never do this. I don’t know what to do. I never had a boyfriend. Not that you are. I just don’t know this stuff.”
I was confessing. I wanted him to know he was dealing with an amateur.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,” he said.
I nodded. For some inexplicable reason, I trusted him.
And I didn’t do anything.
He did everything. He sat me on the bed and he touched me, just touched me until I relaxed. He kept looking at me. I don’t think he said anything; he just looked at me whenever he did something else, to make sure I was okay. I had this feeling that he would stop as soon as I said I wanted him to. But I didn’t want him to.
He kept his white T-shirt on and his boxers. I kept my socks on, and he pulled my crocheted blanket around me to keep me warm.
I had listened to Jamie and her friends talk about all kinds of experiences they’d had, with men they loved or men they wanted or men who were so bad they were good. I never got it. I could never really relate. There was the time with Warren, but that was more about him than me. With Paul it was about me. Someone must have trained him on how to make a girl feel good. I wasn’t jealous. I would just like to shake her hand.
He rocked my world.
14
I was splashing water on my face in the bathroom of the studio that Maureen had insisted I get to at ten a.m. She wanted to show it to me without the other broker. I wondered what she thought as she waited outside for me on the oversize couch she had declared “too big for the space.”
My body was revolting. I couldn’t blame my body. It didn’t know how to handle too much positive emotion. It was used to pain. There were butterflies in my stomach and my jaw felt wired shut.
Paul and I had eaten soy yogurt and toast that morning. Well, he ate. I just pushed the yogurt around because I didn’t think my stomach could take food. I was certain it was me and not the food at Esme’s Eatery. I was certain I might never relax again. My world was evolving in so many ways.
Even in the morning, Paul hadn’t stopped being sweet. I think it would have been a little bit easier in a way if he had been distant. I was becoming too happy. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Something bad had to happen soon. I thought about calling my mother just to get some perspective on how gloomy the world could be.
But even the bathroom was cheerful. The tile around the ceiling was trimmed with bright blue V’s. The bathtub was one of those old-fashioned claw-foot tubs that I only saw in places that were too expensive. There was even a painted blue magazine bin facing me as I sat on the toilet. I imagined stuffing the bin with all of the magazines I wrote for.
“Dear, is everything okay?” Maureen called.
“Yes, just a minute.”
I opened up the door and looked at Maureen, who was on the phone lining up appointments with other clients. I had a chance to assess the place.
The kitchen wasn’t enclosed—you literally opened the door into it. The bathroom was perfect. There were three steps up to an area that would be big enough for my bed and dresser. I could even curtain it off if I wanted to. The living area was decent-sized. There would be room for my desk and file cabinets. I might even be able to squeeze a small eating table into the area. I opened the closet. There was only one, but it was big enough.
I studied the sheet Maureen had given me with the floor plan and financials. There was a storage unit in the basement with the laundry. There was also a roof deck. Outdoor space was a huge plus!
Maureen finished her calls so that she could talk me through the apartment.
“Now, the kitchen is small, but it does have a dishwasher.”
I hadn’t even noticed that.
“Also, Voula, this place is going to get great light. It’s south facing.”
Facing south jacked prices up several thousand dollars.
“It’s move-in condition.”
Maureen knew my aversion to “vision.”
I looked at the financial sheet again. It was actually in my price range.
“There’s no doorman,” I said.
“But there is a live-in super. Besides, I thought you were willing to move away from the doorman thing.”
“I am.” I was. I recognized a sparkle in Maureen’s shrewd eye, which I took to be a reflection of what she was seeing in mine. “Show me the roof deck.”
The roof deck was at best double the size of the bathroom. There were two green chaise longues up there and a tiny hibachi. The area was surrounded by a low plaster wall and next to it was a room that looked like it had some utilitarian purpose.
We were eight floors above West 13th Street. I looked d
own onto the street and if I crooked my head in a quasi-uncomfortable position I could see the Hudson River. A river view? It was unbelievable. It was bliss. I knew there had to be a catch somewhere. I felt faint.
“Do you think they’ll really accept 199? Or is that just a ploy to get it bought?”
“To be safe, you might want to bid a little higher,” Maureen said.
“Do you think I could use the bathroom again?”
“That depends,” Maureen said, grinning. “Are you going to make an offer?”
“Offer 190,” I said. “And give me the keys. I need to sit on that big couch.”
Three days later, I was watching Jamie get ready for the lunch that Alice was having at Alice’s Chelsea Mercantile apartment. I had never been there, but talk about real estate boon.
“I feel fat and ugly!” Jamie screamed, throwing off the third shirt she had tried on.
Jamie had gained seventeen pounds in fifteen weeks. She wasn’t happy with any of her clothes or her swollen ankles. I was wondering when would be a good time to pop in some info about my date. Jamie pointed to a giant ankle and shrieked. I had to ask myself again why anyone would choose that life.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to her breasts as she changed shirts again. This shirt needed to be worn with a different bra.
“What?”
“Your nipples—they’re…” Jamie had had enviably nice breasts her whole life. She had had high Bs with nice nipples and no signs of sag. Her boobs were definitely larger now, but the nipples were dark.
“I know. It happens, I don’t know why. According to Raj—” she pointed down “—other things have gotten darker too. I can’t bring myself to look.”
I couldn’t bring myself to ask for clarification, even though I needed it. I decided to let it pass, and consult my pregnancy book later. I changed the subject.
“Are we going to walk?” I asked.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Subway?”
“Voula, I think I need a cab. Sorry.”
Unless it was after midnight, I considered it blasphemous to take a cab any less than twenty blocks, but Jamie’s belly looked rounder than I had ever seen it. Her whole body was full: she didn’t really look pregnant, just sort of swollen. I agreed to bend my cab rules.