and commotion of this city, the crazy edge that’s missing from other big cities I’ve visited. I want to be here, to stay here. It does have a slight issue with the germs, I’ll admit, and it doesn’t smell so great in certain places… but those are minor downsides compared to the thrill of it all. The possibilities seem as vast as the island of Manhattan, and I feel like my life has just begun. Which is new for me. Back in Chicago I was plagued with a constant sense of waiting – for my real life to start, and for me to finally start living it.
I get back down to the Village around eleven thirty. The un-boyfriend should be packing it up just about now, but I’m not quite in the mood to go home yet. I’m feeling this strange emotion I vaguely remember to be something resembling happiness – and I want to share it with someone. Before I even realize it, I find my feet walking toward Glimpse, and, because I’m still far enough away to change my mind, I decide to follow them.
Okay. Once again I’m not dressed for the Wall Street crowd. But what are the chances of them (i.e., Victor Ragsdale) being there two nights in a row? Pretty low, right? But he could be there. Stranger things have happened. Will I look like a complete loser going in by myself, twice in two nights? I’d obviously be looking for him – and he’d obviously know that. But he seemed to like me. He did buy me a cocktail. An eighteen-dollar cocktail, mind you. Then again, if he liked me so much, why did he let me walk out the door? Why didn’t he ask for my number? This is outstandingly foolish and desperate. There’s no way I can go in there. There’s no way.
In my attempt to reason this out, I haven’t been noticing where I’m walking. I look up to find Glimpse right in front of me, and the same bouncer from last night watching me with an amused smirk.
He knows. I can see it on his face. I’ve got “pathetic woman prowling for Victor Ragsdale” written all over me.
“Back again?” He smiles.
But he can’t know. How does he know who I talked to in the bar? And just because Victor frequents this bar doesn’t mean the bouncer knows him personally. How could he possibly remember the name of every person who comes in here?
“No, I… uh…” I stammer.
“You’re still on the list, you know. Lindsey Miller. I remember.”
Just what I need: a cigar-bar bouncer with a photographic mind.
“You remember every person who comes in here?” I ask skeptically.
“Most of ’em.”
“Right. Great. Well I, uh… have to be getting home. I live just around the corner.” I point in the direction of “around the corner,” as if to illustrate the fact that I have good reason to be walking by, and am most definitely
not
stalking this bar.
“I see.” He smiles again. “Well, come back soon, Lindsey Miller.”
When I return to the apartment, Jen is still in there with her dude. “Come back in a half hour,” she shouts through the door. At first it seems like fate—the perfect time for an eighteen-dollar martini.
But I don’t go for the drink. This time, I wait on the steps.
Chapter 7
W hen I wake up the next morning, Jen has already left for the airport. My relief is exhilarating.
I jump out of bed (the pullout futon, where I was stuck sleeping on the wet spot next to a thong-clad Jen, who snores, by the way) and realize that I haven’t really looked around the apartment yet.
And “apartment” is stretching it. For seventeen hundred dollars a month, at least we don’t have cockroaches. I know that in Manhattan, this is considered a really nice place to live, but it’s not much bigger than a walk-in closet. The three-by-four-foot “kitchen” consists of a mini-fridge, one cupboard and a hot plate. And the “bedroom” is the designated corner of the “living room,” which has enough leftover space for a small television, a coffee table (on which my suitcase is spread out like a gutted animal), a tiny hutch that fits
I get back down to the Village around eleven thirty. The un-boyfriend should be packing it up just about now, but I’m not quite in the mood to go home yet. I’m feeling this strange emotion I vaguely remember to be something resembling happiness – and I want to share it with someone. Before I even realize it, I find my feet walking toward Glimpse, and, because I’m still far enough away to change my mind, I decide to follow them.
Okay. Once again I’m not dressed for the Wall Street crowd. But what are the chances of them (i.e., Victor Ragsdale) being there two nights in a row? Pretty low, right? But he could be there. Stranger things have happened. Will I look like a complete loser going in by myself, twice in two nights? I’d obviously be looking for him – and he’d obviously know that. But he seemed to like me. He did buy me a cocktail. An eighteen-dollar cocktail, mind you. Then again, if he liked me so much, why did he let me walk out the door? Why didn’t he ask for my number? This is outstandingly foolish and desperate. There’s no way I can go in there. There’s no way.
In my attempt to reason this out, I haven’t been noticing where I’m walking. I look up to find Glimpse right in front of me, and the same bouncer from last night watching me with an amused smirk.
He knows. I can see it on his face. I’ve got “pathetic woman prowling for Victor Ragsdale” written all over me.
“Back again?” He smiles.
But he can’t know. How does he know who I talked to in the bar? And just because Victor frequents this bar doesn’t mean the bouncer knows him personally. How could he possibly remember the name of every person who comes in here?
“No, I… uh…” I stammer.
“You’re still on the list, you know. Lindsey Miller. I remember.”
Just what I need: a cigar-bar bouncer with a photographic mind.
“You remember every person who comes in here?” I ask skeptically.
“Most of ’em.”
“Right. Great. Well I, uh… have to be getting home. I live just around the corner.” I point in the direction of “around the corner,” as if to illustrate the fact that I have good reason to be walking by, and am most definitely
not
stalking this bar.
“I see.” He smiles again. “Well, come back soon, Lindsey Miller.”
When I return to the apartment, Jen is still in there with her dude. “Come back in a half hour,” she shouts through the door. At first it seems like fate—the perfect time for an eighteen-dollar martini.
But I don’t go for the drink. This time, I wait on the steps.
Chapter 7
W hen I wake up the next morning, Jen has already left for the airport. My relief is exhilarating.
I jump out of bed (the pullout futon, where I was stuck sleeping on the wet spot next to a thong-clad Jen, who snores, by the way) and realize that I haven’t really looked around the apartment yet.
And “apartment” is stretching it. For seventeen hundred dollars a month, at least we don’t have cockroaches. I know that in Manhattan, this is considered a really nice place to live, but it’s not much bigger than a walk-in closet. The three-by-four-foot “kitchen” consists of a mini-fridge, one cupboard and a hot plate. And the “bedroom” is the designated corner of the “living room,” which has enough leftover space for a small television, a coffee table (on which my suitcase is spread out like a gutted animal), a tiny hutch that fits
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