art. She had a purposeful glow about her, a clarity—or at least bravado—that I was drawn to, along with the lingering scent of lemon. Plus she was pretty, and tall like me. We went out for coffee after class. From that moment, like eager lovers, we were inseparable.
In the dim light of Al’s living room, Jane looks at me, blinking. She gives her hair a self-conscious flick. “Sometimes I worry,” she says again, “that men find us intimidating.” My dangly turquoise earrings swing from her ears. “Because we’re always together. Like we’re a package deal or something?”
“Maybe so,” I say, glancing around at the other partygoers, couples locked in conversation, a few women dancing, groups of friends laughing and gesturing to one another, every interaction made extra hilarious by Al’s high-octane fruit punch.
“I’m not thinking about anyone in particular,” she says, and giggles. “Really, Willa, no one in particular!”
Nearby, Rafael, one of the new poets, is standing close to Amy, a thirty-year-old blond fiction writer perennially looking for love, whose short stories are always about twenty-nine-year-old blond fiction writers looking for love. Amy, Jane has told me, has dated every grad student in their department, each relationship lasting precisely long enough for her to suggest that she’d be open to not using birth control. But Rafael doesn’t know any of this. He’s leaning against the wall, talking to her intently, and she is staring up at him, her eyes huge with need that could easily be mistaken for adoration. I can see, even from here, that this and the spiked punch would be a heady mix for an attention-craving artist.
“Remember Ed?” I say. A burst of laughter erupts from Al’s kitchen.
“Ed.” Jane snorts. He went out with her for three weeks, and then, after it fizzled, he and I met for drinks a few times, followed by beery kisses on his porch among the fireflies.
“Ed,” I say again, “who wrote the poem about us.”
“ ‘Tall Girls’!”
“Before he got kicked out of your department.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafael, still talking, leaning nearer to Amy, whose eyes, I notice, are closed.
“ ‘Tall girls, Amazon hearts,’ ” Jane announces dramatically.
“ ‘Warriors,’ ” I say, clenching my fists in front of me.
“ ‘On the tender battlefield of love’!”
This is not the first time Jane and I have recited Ed’s ode to us; with each rendition we add more sweeping gestures and exaggerated emotion, and each time, by the end, we’re screaming with laughter—although lately I’ve begun to feel, despite the hilarity, that this particular joke has a specific shelf life, that it will die—not now, not yet, but eventually, like a sputtering car running out of gas.
Jane takes a deep breath and another sip of her noxious drink. I reach my hand up to smooth my hair. A man and a woman I don’t recognize seat themselves on the very sunken, 1970s plaid sofa across the room, and then seem to disappear into the dip in the cushions.
“I think guys see us,” she says, “they see our friendship, and they know they don’t have a chance.”
“Remember Josh?” I absently run my palm along the worn nub of the love seat’s arm. Last year, Josh the city planner broke up with Jane because he said he felt like he was the third wheel. Josh’s area of expertise was bus and bicycle lanes. He used a lot of vehicle metaphors.
“I did not prefer him,” Jane says. “He was needy.”
“I know. He was a third wheel!” One time we went to a movie with Josh, and it wasn’t until after the closing credits that Jane and I realized that, while he’d been in the bathroom, we’d changed our minds and gone to a different film.
Al walks out of the kitchen carrying a huge, steaming vat of chili. Behind Jane, Rafael bends awkwardly toward Amy. She strains on her tiptoes, her blond head tipped back. He looks like he’s in imminent danger of toppling
In the dim light of Al’s living room, Jane looks at me, blinking. She gives her hair a self-conscious flick. “Sometimes I worry,” she says again, “that men find us intimidating.” My dangly turquoise earrings swing from her ears. “Because we’re always together. Like we’re a package deal or something?”
“Maybe so,” I say, glancing around at the other partygoers, couples locked in conversation, a few women dancing, groups of friends laughing and gesturing to one another, every interaction made extra hilarious by Al’s high-octane fruit punch.
“I’m not thinking about anyone in particular,” she says, and giggles. “Really, Willa, no one in particular!”
Nearby, Rafael, one of the new poets, is standing close to Amy, a thirty-year-old blond fiction writer perennially looking for love, whose short stories are always about twenty-nine-year-old blond fiction writers looking for love. Amy, Jane has told me, has dated every grad student in their department, each relationship lasting precisely long enough for her to suggest that she’d be open to not using birth control. But Rafael doesn’t know any of this. He’s leaning against the wall, talking to her intently, and she is staring up at him, her eyes huge with need that could easily be mistaken for adoration. I can see, even from here, that this and the spiked punch would be a heady mix for an attention-craving artist.
“Remember Ed?” I say. A burst of laughter erupts from Al’s kitchen.
“Ed.” Jane snorts. He went out with her for three weeks, and then, after it fizzled, he and I met for drinks a few times, followed by beery kisses on his porch among the fireflies.
“Ed,” I say again, “who wrote the poem about us.”
“ ‘Tall Girls’!”
“Before he got kicked out of your department.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafael, still talking, leaning nearer to Amy, whose eyes, I notice, are closed.
“ ‘Tall girls, Amazon hearts,’ ” Jane announces dramatically.
“ ‘Warriors,’ ” I say, clenching my fists in front of me.
“ ‘On the tender battlefield of love’!”
This is not the first time Jane and I have recited Ed’s ode to us; with each rendition we add more sweeping gestures and exaggerated emotion, and each time, by the end, we’re screaming with laughter—although lately I’ve begun to feel, despite the hilarity, that this particular joke has a specific shelf life, that it will die—not now, not yet, but eventually, like a sputtering car running out of gas.
Jane takes a deep breath and another sip of her noxious drink. I reach my hand up to smooth my hair. A man and a woman I don’t recognize seat themselves on the very sunken, 1970s plaid sofa across the room, and then seem to disappear into the dip in the cushions.
“I think guys see us,” she says, “they see our friendship, and they know they don’t have a chance.”
“Remember Josh?” I absently run my palm along the worn nub of the love seat’s arm. Last year, Josh the city planner broke up with Jane because he said he felt like he was the third wheel. Josh’s area of expertise was bus and bicycle lanes. He used a lot of vehicle metaphors.
“I did not prefer him,” Jane says. “He was needy.”
“I know. He was a third wheel!” One time we went to a movie with Josh, and it wasn’t until after the closing credits that Jane and I realized that, while he’d been in the bathroom, we’d changed our minds and gone to a different film.
Al walks out of the kitchen carrying a huge, steaming vat of chili. Behind Jane, Rafael bends awkwardly toward Amy. She strains on her tiptoes, her blond head tipped back. He looks like he’s in imminent danger of toppling
Similar Books
