attention to a Big Red Bus disgorging a load of women who giggled their way over to Magnolia Bakery. They wore fragile shoes and screeched that they were already full after one bite of dessert and that they should get a picture of all of us eating our cupcakes .
On the edges of the gaggles of girls with their cupcakes were the chubby girls, dressed in clothes too tight, trying too hard to twist themselves into the Good Girlfriend image of Charlotte or Miranda.
Ah, my sisters, the wannabes. I know you well, although it is part of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity that no two wannabes can inhabit the same space. Age and distance give me compassion. I’ve been a wannabe longer than you’ve been alive. In the deep shade of the brick and iron park, I watch how the Carries desperately need their plump pals in order to make their fantasy—and their prettiness—come alive. If only the plumpies knew they complete the story. If only the plumpies would simply take their cupcakes and go . The Carries would melt like frosting on a manhole cover.
• • •
I was feeling more Annie Hall than Sex in the City . This Sol-guy, now five minutes late, had sounded smart and I was feeling decidedly that the day was rare and should not be wasted in Starbucks.
After ten minutes I strolled around, looking for a solo guy also scanning the crowd. I recircled the park and noticed a thin man with a straggly gray braid reading on a bench. He looked up and said, “Fran—” as I said, “Sol—”
He kissed me hello and we exchanged the patter we should have exchanged in email or on the phone. I told him I was a writer and he told me he had recently produced a movie, had published several books and had been a food writer for a magazine I didn’t recognize. “I live two blocks away. Do you want to have a glass of wine in my garden?”
If we weren’t going to make fun of people or finger the cheap Indian shirts at the street fair, sitting in a West Village garden was second best.
It became third best when he put his arm around my waist and began caressing my butt.
“Is this a one-off?” I asked as we crossed Bank Street.
“I don’t know.”
The building shared the garden. He didn’t offer to go up and get the wine but he did lean over and begin kissing me. After three minutes of being a spectacle for everyone whose windows faced east, he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
How many things had happened in the last eight minutes that were telling me this was a b-a-a-d idea?
Why did I allow him to point me up the stairs, pushing me gently on my buttocks?
Dr. A-Cigar-Is-Not-a-Cigar would have said I wanted to fuck my father in the guise of this man who looked older than me and had done so much more professionally than I had. My friend Jean would have said, with regretful triumph, that I had wanted it, and her husband, Ben, would have said it was the sort of thing he used to do before Jean but that I deserved better. Bette and Will were a fifty-fifty bet on either, “Go for it!” or “Call a cab. Now .” As for me, I was mostly feeling thirsty. A diet 7UP would have been perfect on that hot afternoon. Or maybe a Fresca.
After hitting my head on the braces of his loft bed in the ensuing gymnastics, I pushed him off and out, sat up and began looking for my clothes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you enjoy any of it?”
“You’re fine,” I said as I pulled on my blouse and looked around for my tank top and prepared to leave without it if necessary. “But we have stuff in common. We could go out. This is ruining it. You have my number—call me.” I found my tank top and squished it into my bag.
• • •
My answering machine was flashing when I got home.
“Sorry, girl,” it played back. “I guess it’s just too soon after the breakup.”
“Ya think he coulda maybe mentioned the breakup before now?” I asked Daisy, as she pressed her head against my hard rubbing, her plainspoken way of telling me she needs
On the edges of the gaggles of girls with their cupcakes were the chubby girls, dressed in clothes too tight, trying too hard to twist themselves into the Good Girlfriend image of Charlotte or Miranda.
Ah, my sisters, the wannabes. I know you well, although it is part of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity that no two wannabes can inhabit the same space. Age and distance give me compassion. I’ve been a wannabe longer than you’ve been alive. In the deep shade of the brick and iron park, I watch how the Carries desperately need their plump pals in order to make their fantasy—and their prettiness—come alive. If only the plumpies knew they complete the story. If only the plumpies would simply take their cupcakes and go . The Carries would melt like frosting on a manhole cover.
• • •
I was feeling more Annie Hall than Sex in the City . This Sol-guy, now five minutes late, had sounded smart and I was feeling decidedly that the day was rare and should not be wasted in Starbucks.
After ten minutes I strolled around, looking for a solo guy also scanning the crowd. I recircled the park and noticed a thin man with a straggly gray braid reading on a bench. He looked up and said, “Fran—” as I said, “Sol—”
He kissed me hello and we exchanged the patter we should have exchanged in email or on the phone. I told him I was a writer and he told me he had recently produced a movie, had published several books and had been a food writer for a magazine I didn’t recognize. “I live two blocks away. Do you want to have a glass of wine in my garden?”
If we weren’t going to make fun of people or finger the cheap Indian shirts at the street fair, sitting in a West Village garden was second best.
It became third best when he put his arm around my waist and began caressing my butt.
“Is this a one-off?” I asked as we crossed Bank Street.
“I don’t know.”
The building shared the garden. He didn’t offer to go up and get the wine but he did lean over and begin kissing me. After three minutes of being a spectacle for everyone whose windows faced east, he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
How many things had happened in the last eight minutes that were telling me this was a b-a-a-d idea?
Why did I allow him to point me up the stairs, pushing me gently on my buttocks?
Dr. A-Cigar-Is-Not-a-Cigar would have said I wanted to fuck my father in the guise of this man who looked older than me and had done so much more professionally than I had. My friend Jean would have said, with regretful triumph, that I had wanted it, and her husband, Ben, would have said it was the sort of thing he used to do before Jean but that I deserved better. Bette and Will were a fifty-fifty bet on either, “Go for it!” or “Call a cab. Now .” As for me, I was mostly feeling thirsty. A diet 7UP would have been perfect on that hot afternoon. Or maybe a Fresca.
After hitting my head on the braces of his loft bed in the ensuing gymnastics, I pushed him off and out, sat up and began looking for my clothes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you enjoy any of it?”
“You’re fine,” I said as I pulled on my blouse and looked around for my tank top and prepared to leave without it if necessary. “But we have stuff in common. We could go out. This is ruining it. You have my number—call me.” I found my tank top and squished it into my bag.
• • •
My answering machine was flashing when I got home.
“Sorry, girl,” it played back. “I guess it’s just too soon after the breakup.”
“Ya think he coulda maybe mentioned the breakup before now?” I asked Daisy, as she pressed her head against my hard rubbing, her plainspoken way of telling me she needs
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