you?”
He looks off to the side, nodding, hiding a blush.
“So, you’re leaving New York.” We’ve reached the door at the bottom stairwell that opens onto the street.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his arm on the door, as if waiting for some cue to not push it open, but then he does open it.
“Yes, but you have to leave first in order to come back.” As I exit the door, I brush dangerously close against him, to give him a taste of what he’s leaving.
We step into the light. It’s a perfect autumn evening, a sky still blue and a faint warm breeze blowing through midtown. I can see Dylan and Joe where they’ve exited the other door. I’ve got only a few seconds to say something profoundly witty or devastatingly clever before they catch up with us, something that will stay with Evan and emblazon me in his thoughts while he’s out there with all the west coast starlets, but all I manage to say is: “I hate when you leave the room, much less leave the city.” This works some effect on him; he looks like someone who is rethinking his entire existence.
“You say beautiful things, Sylvia.” After a moment he adds, “Most people don’t.”
And that’s when the stampede hits. A herd of black and white jersey cows, clad head to toe (horn to hoof?) in fuzzy fleece, surround us suddenly, imploring us to sip samples of their new creamer.
I try to be gracious to the herd. I once had a job where I had to dress up like a cat in a black leotard to promote a new kibble and perform pas de chats on hard pavement outside a pet store. I feign interest in the cow’s spiel, glancing earnestly at the flyer foisted upon me by fervent hooves. Lips brush mine, and I look up quickly to see Evan, eyes full of mischief, his arms full of creamer.
And then Dylan and Joe are upon us, and before I know it we’ve parted, Dylan and I making our way down Seventh Avenue, and Evan pulled into the other direction, the opposite direction of me.
~ 7 ~
A Loo With A View
“Most people don’t.” Careen swishes the words around in her mouth, along with her tea.
Careen’s Royal Daulton tea set is nowhere in sight. The new teapot is a red and black Oriental design, flat as a flounder, and with Chinese scribbling on it, in keeping with Careen’s current predilection for all things Asian. I’m praying there’s no seaweed in the pot. She has been assigned the Herculean task of analyzing my last encounter with Evan to find hidden meanings that will prove he is unequivocally and ardently in love with me.
“Do you think he means that most people don’t say beautiful things to him? Or most people don’t say beautiful things in general?” I prompt, venturing a sip of the tea, delighted to discover it’s good old English Earl Grey.
“I think he means in general. And I’ll give him that one. Most people are dreary as dishwater, always expecting the worst. While you, my dear, speak beautiful things into existence.” She uncovers a dish to reveal raspberry scones and clotted cream. “But it does not bode well that there is always a pervasive smell of pee about his tepid attempts at romance.”
“Most stairwells smell of pee. And frankly, there was more a smell of people sweating through fleece.”
“Ah yes, the cows. Who kissed you, exactly—the cow or the cad?” Careen’s red hair is bound up in a yellow bandanna, with little tendrils hung like chandelier crystals about her head. Lately I notice bandannas everywhere I go.
“It was Evan,” I say, feeling a flutter of butterflies at the memory.
“So, he leaned in for a kiss and was thwarted by a stampede on Seventh Avenue?”
“They were people in cow’s clothing,” I say, between bites. “Promoting a new dairy creamer. Udderly delicious
He looks off to the side, nodding, hiding a blush.
“So, you’re leaving New York.” We’ve reached the door at the bottom stairwell that opens onto the street.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his arm on the door, as if waiting for some cue to not push it open, but then he does open it.
“Yes, but you have to leave first in order to come back.” As I exit the door, I brush dangerously close against him, to give him a taste of what he’s leaving.
We step into the light. It’s a perfect autumn evening, a sky still blue and a faint warm breeze blowing through midtown. I can see Dylan and Joe where they’ve exited the other door. I’ve got only a few seconds to say something profoundly witty or devastatingly clever before they catch up with us, something that will stay with Evan and emblazon me in his thoughts while he’s out there with all the west coast starlets, but all I manage to say is: “I hate when you leave the room, much less leave the city.” This works some effect on him; he looks like someone who is rethinking his entire existence.
“You say beautiful things, Sylvia.” After a moment he adds, “Most people don’t.”
And that’s when the stampede hits. A herd of black and white jersey cows, clad head to toe (horn to hoof?) in fuzzy fleece, surround us suddenly, imploring us to sip samples of their new creamer.
I try to be gracious to the herd. I once had a job where I had to dress up like a cat in a black leotard to promote a new kibble and perform pas de chats on hard pavement outside a pet store. I feign interest in the cow’s spiel, glancing earnestly at the flyer foisted upon me by fervent hooves. Lips brush mine, and I look up quickly to see Evan, eyes full of mischief, his arms full of creamer.
And then Dylan and Joe are upon us, and before I know it we’ve parted, Dylan and I making our way down Seventh Avenue, and Evan pulled into the other direction, the opposite direction of me.
~ 7 ~
A Loo With A View
“Most people don’t.” Careen swishes the words around in her mouth, along with her tea.
Careen’s Royal Daulton tea set is nowhere in sight. The new teapot is a red and black Oriental design, flat as a flounder, and with Chinese scribbling on it, in keeping with Careen’s current predilection for all things Asian. I’m praying there’s no seaweed in the pot. She has been assigned the Herculean task of analyzing my last encounter with Evan to find hidden meanings that will prove he is unequivocally and ardently in love with me.
“Do you think he means that most people don’t say beautiful things to him? Or most people don’t say beautiful things in general?” I prompt, venturing a sip of the tea, delighted to discover it’s good old English Earl Grey.
“I think he means in general. And I’ll give him that one. Most people are dreary as dishwater, always expecting the worst. While you, my dear, speak beautiful things into existence.” She uncovers a dish to reveal raspberry scones and clotted cream. “But it does not bode well that there is always a pervasive smell of pee about his tepid attempts at romance.”
“Most stairwells smell of pee. And frankly, there was more a smell of people sweating through fleece.”
“Ah yes, the cows. Who kissed you, exactly—the cow or the cad?” Careen’s red hair is bound up in a yellow bandanna, with little tendrils hung like chandelier crystals about her head. Lately I notice bandannas everywhere I go.
“It was Evan,” I say, feeling a flutter of butterflies at the memory.
“So, he leaned in for a kiss and was thwarted by a stampede on Seventh Avenue?”
“They were people in cow’s clothing,” I say, between bites. “Promoting a new dairy creamer. Udderly delicious
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