few minutes away.
I wasn’t disappointed. It was a large, contemporary house, built in the midfifties, complete with a huge redwood deck, glass
all around, and a view of Griffith Park Observatory.
Max may be even more than boyfriend material,
I thought while I parked my car out front.
Max is Move-In-Together material
…
He greeted me at the door and gave me a quick tour. The house was filled with a mix of postwar furniture (Saarinen chairs,
Nelson lamps) and I-found-this-on-the-street-corner cool. It was perfect. But I didn’t say much—I was trying not to talk his
ear off after my performance on the phone.
“Okay,” Max said, pausing in his bedroom to put his wallet, cigarettes, and keys in his pocket. “I guess we better hit it.”
He offered to drive. (Good.) And opened my door for me. (Better.)
In the car, he said we were going for shabu shabu in Little Tokyo, and I nodded like I knew what he was talking about. When
we got there, the restaurant looked a little like a diner—white Formica, no-nonsense metal-and-vinyl chairs—except it had
gas burners with huge pots on them on each table, in which customers were cooking their own steak and vegetables. Max, who
had obviously figured out that I had no idea what was going on, explained how
shabu shabu
means “swish swish” in Japanese and gave me a little tutorial on how to do it, stirring long strips of beef in the boiling
water and then dipping them in sauce. I was having a pretty good time. The food was good, even though the hot pot between
us made me feel like I was being steam-cleaned. The other problem was suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain
was completely blank—I’d open my mouth and out would come … nothing. I pretty much just sat there, smiling at everything he
said, boiling my meat, and nodding like the village idiot. It was just that he was so
cute
. He made me feel like a troll. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to die. I really did.
On the drive back to his house, I thought,
You blew it. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to go for a drink
. He parked his car outside his house and we both got out. I stood there for a minute, struck dumb, not knowing what to do.
But then he said, “Do you want to come in for a minute? I think my roommates are out …”
“Really?” I said. (I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.)
“Yeah, I got a bottle of wine somewhere.”
“I like wine.”
“Yeah, well”—he grinned—“most people do.”
Inside, Max turned on a couple of lamps. But not, I noticed, all of them.
Maybe dinner didn’t go so bad after all,
I thought.
Now if I could just
relax.
“I have Radiohead,” he said, shaking a vinyl import and doing a funny little dance.
“Nice dance,” I said. “Do it again.”
“Noooo way.” He put the record on the turntable. “Actually, I’m a really bad dancer.”
“You don’t say,” I teased. I sat on the couch with my feet under me and hoped I looked coquettish.
“Oh, come on now.” Max went into the kitchen, and I could hear him rummaging around. He returned with the wine and a corkscrew.
“Is there anything you’re particularly bad at, besides picking up guys?”
“And look at how bad—I got stuck with you.”
“Oh, ‘Ha.’ ” He balanced the bottle on the end of the couch and fiddled with the opener. “No, seriously. What are you bad
at?”
I pretended to ponder his question for a moment. A long list popped into my head. Bad at: parking, driving, watching what
I eat, quitting smoking, keeping boyfriends, hiding my feelings, spelling, not worrying, not picking at my face, sticking
to an exercise regimen, getting up early, driving within the speed limit, thinking before I speak, keeping doctors’ appointments,
cleaning … But I didn’t think he was ready for this much sharing. So I said, “I’m sure I’m bad at something, but I don’t really
know. Bad at thinking up things I’m bad at?”
“Nice try.”
I wasn’t disappointed. It was a large, contemporary house, built in the midfifties, complete with a huge redwood deck, glass
all around, and a view of Griffith Park Observatory.
Max may be even more than boyfriend material,
I thought while I parked my car out front.
Max is Move-In-Together material
…
He greeted me at the door and gave me a quick tour. The house was filled with a mix of postwar furniture (Saarinen chairs,
Nelson lamps) and I-found-this-on-the-street-corner cool. It was perfect. But I didn’t say much—I was trying not to talk his
ear off after my performance on the phone.
“Okay,” Max said, pausing in his bedroom to put his wallet, cigarettes, and keys in his pocket. “I guess we better hit it.”
He offered to drive. (Good.) And opened my door for me. (Better.)
In the car, he said we were going for shabu shabu in Little Tokyo, and I nodded like I knew what he was talking about. When
we got there, the restaurant looked a little like a diner—white Formica, no-nonsense metal-and-vinyl chairs—except it had
gas burners with huge pots on them on each table, in which customers were cooking their own steak and vegetables. Max, who
had obviously figured out that I had no idea what was going on, explained how
shabu shabu
means “swish swish” in Japanese and gave me a little tutorial on how to do it, stirring long strips of beef in the boiling
water and then dipping them in sauce. I was having a pretty good time. The food was good, even though the hot pot between
us made me feel like I was being steam-cleaned. The other problem was suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain
was completely blank—I’d open my mouth and out would come … nothing. I pretty much just sat there, smiling at everything he
said, boiling my meat, and nodding like the village idiot. It was just that he was so
cute
. He made me feel like a troll. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to die. I really did.
On the drive back to his house, I thought,
You blew it. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to go for a drink
. He parked his car outside his house and we both got out. I stood there for a minute, struck dumb, not knowing what to do.
But then he said, “Do you want to come in for a minute? I think my roommates are out …”
“Really?” I said. (I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.)
“Yeah, I got a bottle of wine somewhere.”
“I like wine.”
“Yeah, well”—he grinned—“most people do.”
Inside, Max turned on a couple of lamps. But not, I noticed, all of them.
Maybe dinner didn’t go so bad after all,
I thought.
Now if I could just
relax.
“I have Radiohead,” he said, shaking a vinyl import and doing a funny little dance.
“Nice dance,” I said. “Do it again.”
“Noooo way.” He put the record on the turntable. “Actually, I’m a really bad dancer.”
“You don’t say,” I teased. I sat on the couch with my feet under me and hoped I looked coquettish.
“Oh, come on now.” Max went into the kitchen, and I could hear him rummaging around. He returned with the wine and a corkscrew.
“Is there anything you’re particularly bad at, besides picking up guys?”
“And look at how bad—I got stuck with you.”
“Oh, ‘Ha.’ ” He balanced the bottle on the end of the couch and fiddled with the opener. “No, seriously. What are you bad
at?”
I pretended to ponder his question for a moment. A long list popped into my head. Bad at: parking, driving, watching what
I eat, quitting smoking, keeping boyfriends, hiding my feelings, spelling, not worrying, not picking at my face, sticking
to an exercise regimen, getting up early, driving within the speed limit, thinking before I speak, keeping doctors’ appointments,
cleaning … But I didn’t think he was ready for this much sharing. So I said, “I’m sure I’m bad at something, but I don’t really
know. Bad at thinking up things I’m bad at?”
“Nice try.”
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