start sleeping together--probably this night, in fact.
It's all very casual and drifty and most of the initial propulsion depends on accidental meetings.
But although no one ever says anything about exclusiveness or nonexclusiveness, he's definitely
your boyfriend. So if you discovered the man you'd been sharing fireside nights and videos with
for the last few months having a nice dinner with a woman who wasn't (a) you, or (b) a female
relation of his, you'd be perfectly within your rights to pour a glass of wine over him, to tell the
other woman that she's "welcome to him." It is also appropriate at this point to wiggle your little
finger and say, "Hardly worth it, though, is it?"
But not in New York. You'd think, There's one of the men I've been seeing nonexclusively having
dinner with a woman he's also seeing nonexclusively. How civilized we all are. No wine gets
poured on anyone; in fact, you might even join them for a drink. Actually, no, scratch that, I
don't really think you would. Maybe on paper, but not in reality, especially if you liked him.
However, it's an ill wind, and during this time of nonexclusivity, you can ride rings around
yourself; you can sleep with a different man every night should you so wish and no one can call
you a six-timing tramp.
Not that I'd touch any of the overgrown frat boys at this party, no matter how accommodating
the system. I battled through the crowded room. Where the hell was Jacqui? Panic flickered as
my path was blocked by another man with yet another jocko name, a short butch thing. In fact,
now that I think about it, it might actually have been Butch. He pulled at my dress and said
peevishly, "What's with all the clothes?"
I was wearing a black wraparound jersey dress and black knee boots, which seemed not
unreasonable attire for a party.
Then he demanded, "What's with the Addams-family thing you've got going on?"
The strange thing was I had never before in my life been accused of looking like Morticia. Why,
why, why? And I wished he'd let go of my dress. It was stretchy but not in the first flush of youth
and I feared it could lose its bounce and never return to its correct configuration. "So, Goth girl,
what do you do when you're not being a Goth girl?"
I was wondering whether to tell him I was an elephant voice coach or the inventor of the inverted
comma, when a voice cut in on us and said, "Don't you know Anna Walsh?"
Butch said, "Say what?"
Say what, is right. I turned around. It was Him. The guy, the one who'd spilled coffee on me, the
one I'd asked out for a drink and who'd blown me off. He was wearing a beenie and a wide-
shouldered workingman's jacket and he'd brought the cold night in with him, refreshing the air.
"Yeah, Anna Walsh. She's a..." He looked at me and shrugged inquiringly. "A magician?"
"Magician's girl," I corrected. "I passed all my magician exams but the assistant's clothes are a
lot cooler."
"Neat," Butch said, but I wasn't looking at him, I was looking at Aidan Maddox, who had
remembered my name, even though it was seven weeks since we'd met. He wasn't exactly how I
remembered him. His tight hat made the bones of his face more pronounced, especially his
cheekbones and the lean cut of his jawbone, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that hadn't been
there the last time.
"She disappears," Aidan said. "But then--as if by magic--she reappears."
He'd taken my number but he hadn't called and now he was hitting me with some of the corniest
lines I'd heard in a long while. I looked at him in cold inquiry: What was his game?
His face gave nothing away but I didn't stop looking at him. Nor he at me. What seemed like
ages later someone asked, "Where do you go?"
"Hmm?" The someone was Butch. I was surprised to find him still there. "Go? When?"
"When you get magically disappeared? Hey, presto!" He winked brightly.
"Oh! I'm just out back, having a cigarette." I turned back to Aidan, and when his eyes met mine
again, the shock of our connection made
It's all very casual and drifty and most of the initial propulsion depends on accidental meetings.
But although no one ever says anything about exclusiveness or nonexclusiveness, he's definitely
your boyfriend. So if you discovered the man you'd been sharing fireside nights and videos with
for the last few months having a nice dinner with a woman who wasn't (a) you, or (b) a female
relation of his, you'd be perfectly within your rights to pour a glass of wine over him, to tell the
other woman that she's "welcome to him." It is also appropriate at this point to wiggle your little
finger and say, "Hardly worth it, though, is it?"
But not in New York. You'd think, There's one of the men I've been seeing nonexclusively having
dinner with a woman he's also seeing nonexclusively. How civilized we all are. No wine gets
poured on anyone; in fact, you might even join them for a drink. Actually, no, scratch that, I
don't really think you would. Maybe on paper, but not in reality, especially if you liked him.
However, it's an ill wind, and during this time of nonexclusivity, you can ride rings around
yourself; you can sleep with a different man every night should you so wish and no one can call
you a six-timing tramp.
Not that I'd touch any of the overgrown frat boys at this party, no matter how accommodating
the system. I battled through the crowded room. Where the hell was Jacqui? Panic flickered as
my path was blocked by another man with yet another jocko name, a short butch thing. In fact,
now that I think about it, it might actually have been Butch. He pulled at my dress and said
peevishly, "What's with all the clothes?"
I was wearing a black wraparound jersey dress and black knee boots, which seemed not
unreasonable attire for a party.
Then he demanded, "What's with the Addams-family thing you've got going on?"
The strange thing was I had never before in my life been accused of looking like Morticia. Why,
why, why? And I wished he'd let go of my dress. It was stretchy but not in the first flush of youth
and I feared it could lose its bounce and never return to its correct configuration. "So, Goth girl,
what do you do when you're not being a Goth girl?"
I was wondering whether to tell him I was an elephant voice coach or the inventor of the inverted
comma, when a voice cut in on us and said, "Don't you know Anna Walsh?"
Butch said, "Say what?"
Say what, is right. I turned around. It was Him. The guy, the one who'd spilled coffee on me, the
one I'd asked out for a drink and who'd blown me off. He was wearing a beenie and a wide-
shouldered workingman's jacket and he'd brought the cold night in with him, refreshing the air.
"Yeah, Anna Walsh. She's a..." He looked at me and shrugged inquiringly. "A magician?"
"Magician's girl," I corrected. "I passed all my magician exams but the assistant's clothes are a
lot cooler."
"Neat," Butch said, but I wasn't looking at him, I was looking at Aidan Maddox, who had
remembered my name, even though it was seven weeks since we'd met. He wasn't exactly how I
remembered him. His tight hat made the bones of his face more pronounced, especially his
cheekbones and the lean cut of his jawbone, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that hadn't been
there the last time.
"She disappears," Aidan said. "But then--as if by magic--she reappears."
He'd taken my number but he hadn't called and now he was hitting me with some of the corniest
lines I'd heard in a long while. I looked at him in cold inquiry: What was his game?
His face gave nothing away but I didn't stop looking at him. Nor he at me. What seemed like
ages later someone asked, "Where do you go?"
"Hmm?" The someone was Butch. I was surprised to find him still there. "Go? When?"
"When you get magically disappeared? Hey, presto!" He winked brightly.
"Oh! I'm just out back, having a cigarette." I turned back to Aidan, and when his eyes met mine
again, the shock of our connection made
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Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done."
Bad-Boy Storyteller
