by Tara Wylde
“Did yours have...gift registries?”
He looks at me like I’ve grown antennae. “Noooo...’cause that would be rude. Like, ‘hey, come to my party. You must spend this much’? Fuck off with that.”
“No one has any manners anymore.”
Rich elbows me in the ribs. “You’re way too young to be talking like that.” He screws up his face and raises his voice to a high, quavering pitch. “You kids get off my lawn!—that’s you.”
“Thaaanks.”
“Anyway, it’s time to close up. Came back here to see if you needed help, or....” He wants to get back to his grandkids.
“Nah, go on home. Not a lot left to do.”
“See ya next week, then.” He pulls his hat down over his ears. “And quit worrying. You got a great kid. She’s not gonna get corrupted by her rich friend’s diamond-crusted slumber party.”
I grimace. Technically, Katie is the rich friend. Will she be expecting the same kind of do, when her own big day rolls around? Will I even be invited?
I grab the broom and dustpan and head out front. The place looks lonely with the lights turned down. Lonely and a touch shabby. The same hardwood floors that gleam mellowly under the incandescent lights just look old and uneven in the dark. The vintage oak counter’s showing all its nicks and dings. Even my Christmas display looks more ghostly than festive without the backlighting.
“Everything’s crap if you scratch the surface.”
I close my eyes. No one answers. Can’t hear Mark’s voice in my head any more, not like I could when his loss was fresh. Can’t even picture his face. It wasn’t a perfect mirror of mine, for all people couldn’t tell us apart. His expressions were different; his whole way of looking at you. He was....
What was he like?
I hate that he’s slipping away. It’s only been twelve years.
I remember the stuff he used to say—that thing about everything being crap; that was his. But...when I try to picture what he’d say to me now, if he could see me sweeping the floor in my red HAPPY BEAN apron, nothing comes to mind.
Cool apron, bro.
Lemme get a cloth. It’ll go faster.
Fuck this place. Let’s get blasted.
Nothing rings true. Would he have mocked me? Joined me? Been proud of me? He slipped away from me, those last couple of years, till there was nothing left. Till I looked up and the brother I knew wasn’t there. It’s like he checked out one day, and that day became a week, a month, a year—and when did it get too late? When did he drift beyond my grasp?
Was he waiting for me to do something?
I was never that guy, between the two of us. It was always Mark stepping up, Mark with the plan, telling me what to do.
He was three minutes younger. I should’ve—should’ve been....
Should’ve made Rich stick around. That guy can talk a blue streak. He could probably have planned Katie’s entire tenth birthday for me, plus Christmas, by the time I’d waxed the floor. He’d have come out for pizza too. That would’ve wasted at least another hour.
I flip the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED” and lean my head on the glass. It’s cold enough to spike my brain like an ice cream headache. Somehow, that’s the last straw. My whole face burns as I choke back tears.
When I open my eyes, I’m looking right at the woman from last night—Elina something. No, Lina; she said to call her Lina.
She presses her palm to the pane, over mine. I know I couldn’t possibly feel her warmth that fast, through the glass and the woolly thickness of her glove, but I’d swear I do.
I clear my throat. “What brings you here?”
She cocks her head.
Duh. Of course she can’t hear me.
My only thought’s to talk to her—to see what she’s doing here so late, so far from home—but instead, I find myself enfolded in the warmest hug ever. Not sure whether she reaches for me, or the other way round, but I don’t care; it doesn’t matter. She smells like she’s been baking. I bet she’s a mom—or if not, an amazing big sister. I bite back an undignified sob. Fantastic as this hug is, I’m going to make a fool of myself if I don’t step back.
Three more seconds, though.
I need three more seconds.
One....
Two....
I suck in a deep breath and step away. “Hey! I mean, thanks! Nice to see you again! We’re closed, but if—“
Lina shakes her head. “No, no—I’m not here for more... I mean, you gave me so much! No way I could eat through that in one night!” Her smile’s still warming me to the core. “No, I actually—I was hoping you’d be here.” Is she blushing, just a shade? “The basket, with the chocolates, and the oysters, and the note....” She clasps her hands together. “You have no idea. I know that wasn’t... I know that must’ve been from you, and... It meant more than you could know. And I wanted to thank you. Maybe buy you a hot chocolate.”
I feel like I’ve still got brain freeze. Did she just ask me out?
‘Course she didn’t, dummy. She’s just being nice.
“There’s a diner at the end of the block,” I say.
“Great. Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Nah, it’s the perfect time.” It really is. I need to get out of here. “I was just—ever have one of those days where you’re so done, but you’re not exactly tired?”
“Mm, I’m always tired. Think I was a sloth in my last life.”
I find myself laughing. “I was...a big ol’ New York rat.”
She chuckles. “Why?”
“Y’know...’cause they’re not people, but they still kind of live like us. With us. Whatever. Wherever we are, they are. I was—“ I bite back the impulse to bend her ear about Katie and her too-grown-up friends. “Uh...I mean, I don’t get people, sometimes.”
“Ha! Me neither.”
The diner’s flooding the sidewalk with cheery yellow light. Looks warm inside. Welcoming. When I open the door, Deck the Halls washes over us. Got to be a good sign. I take Lina’s elbow and guide her to the best table, far enough from the door to avoid that frigid blast when the door opens; far enough from the toilets to avoid getting bumped into all night. A waitress ambushes us with a couple of menus.
“You two know what you want, or you need a few minutes?”
“Give us a few.” I smile, but she’s already off on her rounds. Busy night.
Lina’s fidgeting with her menu, picking at a corner where the lamination’s peeling away. “What’s good here?”
“Depends how hungry you are.”
She seesaws her hand: kinda?
“I’d get the French toast. Goes good with hot chocolate.”
“Mmm...been forever since I’ve had French toast. My—uh, I’ve been all about the cereal lately.”
Before I can chase up what she was really about to say, the waitress reappears. We both end up getting the French toast. It’s every bit as good as I remember: soft in the middle, crisp at the edges, with the perfect amount of cinnamon.
“Don’t think I’ve had this after nine in the morning before.” Lina licks sugar off her upper lip. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s really good.” She goes to cut another bite. Her knife skids on the plate, spattering syrup over her sleeve. “Shit. Sorry. I....” She grabs a napkin from the dispenser. Her hand’s shaking. Can’t tell whether she’s nervous or cold.
I fumble for something to say. “All day breakfast’s the greatest thing to happen to American cuisine since—since, uh—“ Shit. What I know about food could fit on a postage stamp.
“Fries?”
“Aren’t those French?”
“Oh, yeah—kind of built into the name, huh? But...they must’ve happened to American cuisine at some point.” Lina’s still dabbing at her sleeve. Her fork’s doing a slow slide into the syrup. Should I call attention to that, or—nope. She’s got it. “Besides, is there even such a thing as specifically American breakfast food?”
“Uh...grits?”
“What ev
en are those? I always pictured them as, like...wet sand in a bowl?”
“I think that’s pretty much what they are.”
“Yeah, I’ll stick with this.” She takes another bite. “So...you come here a lot?”
“Used to. Been busy lately.”
“Busy, yeah....” Either her plate’s suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the restaurant, or I’ve struck a nerve. But all she says is “I feel your pain.”
There’s an awkward silence, then, and I rush to fill it. “I...uh, you ever get that thing where you sit down to do something fun, something you want to do, and your brain suddenly assaults you with, like...a million things you should be doing, instead?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. Was that an overshare? “Were you just in my head, right now? ‘Cause I was just—I was just mentally two-timing this conversation to figure out how many days I’ll have to get up early, and how early it’ll have to be, to make up for tonight.”
“Oh? Am I keeping you from something?” Didn’t she ask me out?
“Oh—no! No, sorry!” She grabs a sugar packet and starts messing with it, shaking all the sugar to one end. “I wasn’t trying to say this is a waste of time, or...or.... Sorry. I had—I should probably have got coffee instead of hot chocolate.” She’s got this panicked look in her eyes. “I’m just...saying all kinds of things.”
“You okay?”
Lina catches me staring at the sugar packet—poor thing’s about to burst, the way she’s torturing it—and drops it back in the box. She flattens her hands on the table. “Fine, yeah. Just...haven’t had a real human conversation in a while.” She bites her lip. “Ugh. That came out wrong. I’m not making any sense.”
“No, you are.” I slide my hand across the table. My fingertips graze hers. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “Let me see... If your life’s anything like mine, every conversation you’ve had lately’s involved someone needing something from you, someone talking to themselves with you as an audience, or someone going on and on about something you...totally don’t get.”
“Something like that.” She pincers my index finger between two of hers, like a tiny hug. “Especially that last one.” A little smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “My mom got married last year, and they’re still trying to decide where to go on their honeymoon. She calls me up three times a week, like...is a trans-Siberian rail tour too cliché? Is Greece too touristy? Like I’d have a clue!”
I nod, thinking of Katie, and what she’s probably doing right now. I desperately don’t want to go back to my empty penthouse. “Uh, look—I know you probably have someplace to be, but...wanna blow it off? Hit a comedy club, or something? In the spirit of self-indulgence?”
“A comedy club?” Her smile widens. “I could...yeah, I could use a laugh. Let’s do it!”
Whatever that tension was between us, it seems to have gone. I even manage to get Lina laughing with my Seinfeld impression, which Katie tells me is mediocre at best. By the time we’re mopping the last of the syrup off our plates, we’re deep into our favorite episodes: the soup Nazi for her, a tie between the contest and the reunion on Curb Your Enthusiasm for me.
I sneakily pay the bill while she’s off washing her hands. She looks confused, but doesn’t make a thing of it. Phew. Money always makes things weird sooner or later... But why make it sooner? For now, we’re just two overworked people with a shared appreciation for dry New York comedy.
I can work with that.
137
Elina
I’m not being fair on this guy—Nick, according to his name tag. Did he have that before? Must’ve been too distracted to notice....
I’m not being fair on Nick. I’m not sure what it was—maybe the way he grabbed my arm in the diner; maybe something he said—maybe just that moment when he smiled, and I felt something like a spark... I don’t know. Something put me in mind of Joey’s dad, and my walls went up so fast I practically heard them slam into place. But he was nothing but honest with me the whole time, as far as I could tell.
As far as I could tell.
That’s always the problem. Everyone seems genuine enough, right till the moment they aren’t. Right till the moment the castles in the air collapse into bricks.
Still. I’m being a freak. This isn’t even a date. We’re just two sort-of-acquaintances, grabbing a bite and a laugh. I can enjoy this. Hell, I deserve it. Doesn’t have to mean anything.
The comedian’s stammering his way through a routine about how fat girls at least have big tits, but what do fat guys have? He’s sweating through his shirt. Think he twigged to the audience’s general contempt two punchlines in. Now’d be the time to change lanes gracefully, but I’m not sure he knows how.
This is my chance to make it up to Nick for that weirdness in the diner. I lean in and whisper, “Not sure whether to give him a mercy laugh or let him die up there.”
“Oh, let him burn.” Nick tips me a wink. “This guy’s clearly an asshole. Booo-oooo!”
“Oh my God!” I duck my head, choking back a laugh. “What if he comes and heckles you at work?”
“Bring it on. Boooooo!”
Nick’s booing opens the floodgates. The bad comedian flips us all the bird and storms offstage to a chorus of jeers and whistles.
The next guy’s better: one of those misery-is-hilarious types. “So two weeks later, I’m at student health: yup. Totally herpes. So what do I do? I fuckin’ propose! I mean, I am saving myself so many awkward conversations, so much burning—and, folks, I do mean burning—rejection. And I don’t even have to go all-out on the ring, ‘cause—“
“I feel bad, how hard I’m laughing,” whispers Nick. “If any of that’s true...”
“He’d never admit it on stage if it were.”
“Yeah...but are you a hundred percent sure?”
I open my mouth to say something about how you can never be that sure of anyone, but a tide of laughter drowns me out. I pretend to join in: some things are best left unsaid.
I wonder if I’ve lost my capacity for trust. I mean, here I am with a guy who volunteers at a food pantry, gives fancy picnic baskets to complete strangers, and puts up with their weird, awkward diner conversation—if I can’t relax with him, who am I waiting for? A literal saint?
It’s late by the time the show’s winding down and we’re spilling out onto the street, still giggling at our favorite parts.
“The one with the elbow awareness,” Nick gasps, “where was he even going with that? I kept waiting for him to get to the...to make some kind of point, but it was just—“
“I know, right? Like, you get on the subway, you suddenly lack all elbow awareness, and...? What? You elbow someone right in the face?”
“I don’t even know! It was like...like he just enjoyed saying ‘elbow awareness’.” Nick’s arm finds its way around my waist. I think I like it there. I....
I keep talking, to keep my paranoia from running wild. “I’m going to start using that. Like, if someone’s being inappropriate, making everyone uncomfortable, I’ll be all, ‘yep. She lacks elbow awareness’.”
He pulls me a little closer. “Let me know if I’m ever lacking elbow awareness.”
Should I pull away? Let my head rest on his shoulder? “You’re—you’re good. Master of your elbow domain.”
“Oh—Seinfeld! Nice reference!”
“Why, thank you!” I go with doing nothing, leaving him in charge of the physical contact situation. But that might seem weird, too, if he’s holding me tight and I’m not doing anything. I fumble for something to say. “What time is it?”
He has to pull his arm back to check his watch. Shit. Now it’s gone, I...kinda want it back. “Eleven thirty. Oh—I should drive you home!”
“You’re going to drive all the way to Brighton Beach?” Suddenly, alarm bells are blaring. Can’t have him knowing where I live. Too close; too soon. I play it off like a joke. “You even know your way off the island?”
“Hey, I’m a livi
ng map of the city.” He grins. “Used to walk everywhere, back in the day. Literally wore the soles off my shoes. Probably know Brooklyn better than you.” His arm links with mine again. “My car’s just back at Happy Bean.”
Fake address—I’ll give him a fake address, and slink the last few blocks like a walk of shame.
A light snow starts to fall as we veer off into the parking lot. Nick reminds me of a kid again, the way he tips his head back to catch a snowflake on his tongue. “Love this kind of snow,” he says. His consonants are slurred from trying to talk with his tongue out. “Big puffy flakes.”
“The best’s walking to work right after a snowstorm. When it’s still all perfect and sparkly.” I put out my hand and watch the flakes melt on my glove. “Walking home kind of sucks, when it’s all just a gritty, icy dog toilet.” I tip my head back to watch the flakes spiral down. The wind sets them whirling around my head. It’s dizzying. I stumble back a step, and collide with Nick—when’d he sneak up on me? I relax into it when his arms wrap around my waist. They’re good arms: strong. Warm. On impulse, I turn around.
And...there he is, red-cheeked from the cold, gray eyes sparkling. Smiling down at me like the cat that got the cream. Is he... Sshould I close my eyes? Let him kiss me?
He brushes the tip of his nose against mine, back and forth. My heart melts a little. Maybe he’s nervous too? It’s been a while; I should say something—I should—
He kisses me. I hear someone laugh—at us? Can people see? Are we—
The kiss is over before I’ve calmed my racing mind enough to enjoy it. Too swift for second guesses, I’m chasing his lips with mine, and he is a good kisser: soft lips, just the right amount of tongue, one palm on my cheek. My own hand’s on his waist, holding him close, and when’d that happen?
I feel something smooth and cold at my back. He’s pressing me up against someone’s car—his, I hope—and this feels like more than a goodnight kiss. His body’s firm and unyielding against mine, full of a wiry kind of strength. Bet he could pick me up, throw me down....
“This okay?”
He’s asking, but he’s grinding up against me in a way that says he’s pretty sure I’m fine with it.