are in Lishaâs car, hanging from her mirror. We decided theyâre good luck, though so far nothing too exciting has happened in either of our cars. Besides, I think Lisha just being in my life is good luck. Really.
I keep a minilibrary of my favorite books in the backseat, just in case Iâm caught without anything to do, or if Lishaâs running late to meet me. Thereâs a hardcover of poems by Mary Oliver, this poet who writes about nature. It was a gift. To be honest itâs something Kurt owned and gave to me a few weeks before he dumped me. The spine is broken so it automatically opens up to his favorite poems. I try not to think too much about why they were his favorites. And more books too: old-school favorites like Judy Blume. The Fountainhead , which is my favorite book of all time. I can open any of them up to any page and get lost for twenty minutes or an hour, depending on what the situation requires. Add a couple ofblankets, and my car would be just as fantastic as my bedroom.
Itâs not a short drive to where they live. We make our way through crowded rush hour traffic from the suburbs into the city. I have to drive fast to keep up with their zippy VW, so my heartâs pounding. I hate driving fast. I try to be a hawk, watching for pedestrians and oncoming traffic with the full knowledge that if Iâm not careful, I could hurt someone. I find that if I blink my headlights in warning every so often I can deal with the windier roads, the merges, the heart-pounding intersections. So thatâs what I do, all the way from Lexington to a high-rise on the waterfront. We are somewhere between the old-school Italian charm of the North End and the tourist trap that is Faneuil Hall. I pull over across the street. Austin and Sylvia park somewhere around the block but quickly get back to the entrance of their urban palace. It is all windows, all silver and mirrored facades. Itâs not the kind of place where people actually live, not really, and maybe thatâs why theyâre so miserable that they have to go to therapy multiple times a week like me.
How could you live somewhere so icy cold and imposing, so clearly in conflict with the rest of the city, the rest of the human population, and stay in love? As far as I can tell, love takes place in townhouses and cozy cottages and cramped studio apartments and rundown guest houses. This place might as well be an office building or a spaceship.
Austin clasps the doormanâs shoulder on his way in. Sylvia doesnât make eye contact and thereâs no hesitation when she enters. Nowhere else she wants to be but in her glass apartment high above anything resembling real, feeling, troubling, exhilarating life .
Iâd be lying if I said I didnât get that.
Maybe I donât need to try on her skin to get how she feels after all.
I stay in my car. I donât drive away immediately because I donât want to see Austin and Sylviaâs building vanishing in my rearview mirror. I stay because Iâm holding out for the possibility that Austin has forgotten something important in his car and will run back out and Iâll get a final glimpse of his string-bean body and the way his feet pound clownishly against the pavement.
Iâm half right.
It is not Austin who appears a few minutes later back on the pavement, but Sylvia. She has changed her coat to something warm and full of down and has added a ridiculous Russian fur hat to her ensemble. Itâs cooled down, even inside the car. Iâve turned it off to distract from my strange waiting game and though the windows are zipped up tight thereâs no real fight against the last puffs of winter.
Sylvia leans against their building, and like some old-school movie star she has a cigarette case and a silver lighter and an air of certainty about her importance in the world.She matters. Watching her is like watching a dancer, but itâs not enough, the
I keep a minilibrary of my favorite books in the backseat, just in case Iâm caught without anything to do, or if Lishaâs running late to meet me. Thereâs a hardcover of poems by Mary Oliver, this poet who writes about nature. It was a gift. To be honest itâs something Kurt owned and gave to me a few weeks before he dumped me. The spine is broken so it automatically opens up to his favorite poems. I try not to think too much about why they were his favorites. And more books too: old-school favorites like Judy Blume. The Fountainhead , which is my favorite book of all time. I can open any of them up to any page and get lost for twenty minutes or an hour, depending on what the situation requires. Add a couple ofblankets, and my car would be just as fantastic as my bedroom.
Itâs not a short drive to where they live. We make our way through crowded rush hour traffic from the suburbs into the city. I have to drive fast to keep up with their zippy VW, so my heartâs pounding. I hate driving fast. I try to be a hawk, watching for pedestrians and oncoming traffic with the full knowledge that if Iâm not careful, I could hurt someone. I find that if I blink my headlights in warning every so often I can deal with the windier roads, the merges, the heart-pounding intersections. So thatâs what I do, all the way from Lexington to a high-rise on the waterfront. We are somewhere between the old-school Italian charm of the North End and the tourist trap that is Faneuil Hall. I pull over across the street. Austin and Sylvia park somewhere around the block but quickly get back to the entrance of their urban palace. It is all windows, all silver and mirrored facades. Itâs not the kind of place where people actually live, not really, and maybe thatâs why theyâre so miserable that they have to go to therapy multiple times a week like me.
How could you live somewhere so icy cold and imposing, so clearly in conflict with the rest of the city, the rest of the human population, and stay in love? As far as I can tell, love takes place in townhouses and cozy cottages and cramped studio apartments and rundown guest houses. This place might as well be an office building or a spaceship.
Austin clasps the doormanâs shoulder on his way in. Sylvia doesnât make eye contact and thereâs no hesitation when she enters. Nowhere else she wants to be but in her glass apartment high above anything resembling real, feeling, troubling, exhilarating life .
Iâd be lying if I said I didnât get that.
Maybe I donât need to try on her skin to get how she feels after all.
I stay in my car. I donât drive away immediately because I donât want to see Austin and Sylviaâs building vanishing in my rearview mirror. I stay because Iâm holding out for the possibility that Austin has forgotten something important in his car and will run back out and Iâll get a final glimpse of his string-bean body and the way his feet pound clownishly against the pavement.
Iâm half right.
It is not Austin who appears a few minutes later back on the pavement, but Sylvia. She has changed her coat to something warm and full of down and has added a ridiculous Russian fur hat to her ensemble. Itâs cooled down, even inside the car. Iâve turned it off to distract from my strange waiting game and though the windows are zipped up tight thereâs no real fight against the last puffs of winter.
Sylvia leans against their building, and like some old-school movie star she has a cigarette case and a silver lighter and an air of certainty about her importance in the world.She matters. Watching her is like watching a dancer, but itâs not enough, the
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