fun job. Relatively low-paying, but I’m not a gold digger like Kate, so what do I care?
“I’ve never seen you around the agency before,” Jack tellsme while I check out his clothes. I’m no Raphael, but his suit looks good on him and it’s basic black; he’s wearing a white starched spread-collar dress shirt and a black tie with a white pattern.
“I’ve never seen you around either,” I tell him, hoping he didn’t catch me looking him up and down.
Maybe he did, because I suddenly feel like he’s looking me up and down, too.
Now I feel awkward. And drunk. Not to mention confused. Why is this Jack over here talking to me?
Cut it out, Tracey. I can almost hear Buckley’s voice. Why wouldn’t this guy want to talk to you? What’s wrong with you?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. I just have to remember that.
Lately, Buckley has been trying to point out that Will really did a number on my self-esteem. The whole time I was with him, I felt unworthy. I’m trying, but it’s hard to get past that. I might have lost all that extra poundage, but I’m still carrying around a tremendous amount of baggage.
And now, here’s this guy coming up to talk to me; the kind of guy I’d normally be wistfully checking out from afar. It seems too good to be true.
Especially since he just appeared out of nowhere. If this were a movie, he’d have stepped into a dazzling pool of light, and a choir would have sung one big loud Hallelujah. But it’s not and he didn’t and they didn’t.
He’s just here, and I have no idea why. I mean, even setting all the usual Tracey insecurity aside, I’m still the lone Don’t at the party, and he’s…
Well, he’s so normal. Good-looking normal, with dimples and a real job.
Unlike Will, the actor. Will was good-looking, too, but he didn’t have dimples and he wasn’t normal . Ask Kate. Ask Raphael. Their hobby, when I was dating Will, was pointing out just how abnormal Will is. That he’s narcissistic and untrustworthy and selfish.
And closeted—or so they both suspected.
Kate, because she assumes every man who wears black turtlenecks and cologne and dabbles in theater must be secretly gay.
Raphael, because he and his constantly blipping gaydar think every man is secretly gay.
I try to think of something to say to Cute Normal Jack of the warm brown eyes and stable job.
“So…um, Jack…you just saw me standing here alone and decided to come over and talk to me?”
Okay, I agree, awkward silence was better. But I can’t seem to help myself. Three martinis and I start to blurt things. Anyway, it could have been worse.
He shifts his weight, doesn’t answer right away.
Uh-oh.
Maybe it couldn’t have been worse. Maybe he really wasn’t talking to me all this time. I look over my shoulders again, half expecting to see some supermodel standing there.
“Yeah, I wanted to meet you,” he says, obviously uncomfortable. “Oh.”
Something tells me there’s more to it, but who am I to pry? If Cute Normal Jack wants to meet the Queen of the Don’ts, so be it.
From there, the night unfolds in a series of highlights: Jack asking me to dance to an old song by the Cure; Jack meeting my friends; Latisha snapping pictures with my camera; more drinks; more cigarettes in the bitter cold.
Until now, I’ve felt that there are two breeds of men in New York: men who smoke, and men who think nobody should smoke.
Jack breaks the whole If you’re not with us, you’re against us mold. He’s not a smoker, but not only does he not seem to mind that I am, he comes outside with me, gives me his suit jacket to keep me warm, takes my lighter from me and lights my cigarettes.
He makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time, especially when he sings along to a Billy Joel song that’s playing, acting like he’s doing a nightclub act and using a beer bottle as a microphone. I can’t tell if he really can’t sing or if he’s just pretending for the sake of the
“I’ve never seen you around the agency before,” Jack tellsme while I check out his clothes. I’m no Raphael, but his suit looks good on him and it’s basic black; he’s wearing a white starched spread-collar dress shirt and a black tie with a white pattern.
“I’ve never seen you around either,” I tell him, hoping he didn’t catch me looking him up and down.
Maybe he did, because I suddenly feel like he’s looking me up and down, too.
Now I feel awkward. And drunk. Not to mention confused. Why is this Jack over here talking to me?
Cut it out, Tracey. I can almost hear Buckley’s voice. Why wouldn’t this guy want to talk to you? What’s wrong with you?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. I just have to remember that.
Lately, Buckley has been trying to point out that Will really did a number on my self-esteem. The whole time I was with him, I felt unworthy. I’m trying, but it’s hard to get past that. I might have lost all that extra poundage, but I’m still carrying around a tremendous amount of baggage.
And now, here’s this guy coming up to talk to me; the kind of guy I’d normally be wistfully checking out from afar. It seems too good to be true.
Especially since he just appeared out of nowhere. If this were a movie, he’d have stepped into a dazzling pool of light, and a choir would have sung one big loud Hallelujah. But it’s not and he didn’t and they didn’t.
He’s just here, and I have no idea why. I mean, even setting all the usual Tracey insecurity aside, I’m still the lone Don’t at the party, and he’s…
Well, he’s so normal. Good-looking normal, with dimples and a real job.
Unlike Will, the actor. Will was good-looking, too, but he didn’t have dimples and he wasn’t normal . Ask Kate. Ask Raphael. Their hobby, when I was dating Will, was pointing out just how abnormal Will is. That he’s narcissistic and untrustworthy and selfish.
And closeted—or so they both suspected.
Kate, because she assumes every man who wears black turtlenecks and cologne and dabbles in theater must be secretly gay.
Raphael, because he and his constantly blipping gaydar think every man is secretly gay.
I try to think of something to say to Cute Normal Jack of the warm brown eyes and stable job.
“So…um, Jack…you just saw me standing here alone and decided to come over and talk to me?”
Okay, I agree, awkward silence was better. But I can’t seem to help myself. Three martinis and I start to blurt things. Anyway, it could have been worse.
He shifts his weight, doesn’t answer right away.
Uh-oh.
Maybe it couldn’t have been worse. Maybe he really wasn’t talking to me all this time. I look over my shoulders again, half expecting to see some supermodel standing there.
“Yeah, I wanted to meet you,” he says, obviously uncomfortable. “Oh.”
Something tells me there’s more to it, but who am I to pry? If Cute Normal Jack wants to meet the Queen of the Don’ts, so be it.
From there, the night unfolds in a series of highlights: Jack asking me to dance to an old song by the Cure; Jack meeting my friends; Latisha snapping pictures with my camera; more drinks; more cigarettes in the bitter cold.
Until now, I’ve felt that there are two breeds of men in New York: men who smoke, and men who think nobody should smoke.
Jack breaks the whole If you’re not with us, you’re against us mold. He’s not a smoker, but not only does he not seem to mind that I am, he comes outside with me, gives me his suit jacket to keep me warm, takes my lighter from me and lights my cigarettes.
He makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time, especially when he sings along to a Billy Joel song that’s playing, acting like he’s doing a nightclub act and using a beer bottle as a microphone. I can’t tell if he really can’t sing or if he’s just pretending for the sake of the
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