of his hair.”
I was silent.
“Hey, I wish Larry would go bald,” Bonnie said. “Then I could
relax.
”
“Is there anything else?” I said.
“No.”
“Okay.”
We went outside. It was a beautiful day. Bonnie gave me a hug.
“Do yourself a favor, Alison. Don’t mention this whole thing with Tom on your date.”
“I thought the whole point of this date was that I could act like myself.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to act like yourself later, if things go well and he likes you,” said Bonnie. “Right now you should act like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
You know, light. Airy.”
Six
B Y FRIDAY, IT WAS STARTING TO SEEM A LITTLE STRANGE TO ME that Tom hadn’t called. I’d been preparing for his call all week, for the follow-up call, for the call that would give me a chance to say all the things I hadn’t been able to say during the initial call because I’d been so stunned. I was going to tell him that he was a schmuck and an asshole and a fuckhead and an idiot, and I didn’t know what I’d ever seen in him in the first place. I was going to say that he and Kate Pearce deserved each other. I was going to warn him that she was going to leave him again, just like she had the first time, and he’d better not come crawling back to me, because I won’t take him back, not in a million years, not for all the tea in China, not if he was the last man on Earth. I was going over this stuff again in my head while I was sitting at my desk late on Friday when it hit me: maybe Tom wasn’t going to call me, ever. Maybe he thought “I’m in love with somebody else” covered everything. Maybe he wasn’t even going to give me the satisfaction of telling him what a schmuck and an asshole and a fuckhead and an idiot he was. That would be just like him, the bastard.
Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I had to call him. I had to call him and tell him that we needed to have a talk, a face-to-face talk, that I deserved at least that much consideration. If nothing else, we had the business of cohabitation to discuss. I mean, was he planning to pay his half of the rent for the next month? Did he expect me to warehouse his personal effects indefinitely? Tom might be hoping to swoon around in a sex haze a while longer, content to wear his friends’ old suits to work so he could put off a confrontation with me, but I had details to attend to, plans to make.
I looked at my watch. It was six-fifteen. I realized I had to make the call right away, because if I didn’t catch him before he left work, I’d be forced to wait until Monday, because I didn’t know where he was sleeping. I knew who he was sleeping with, but I had no idea where. I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairwell, in search of a pay phone. I couldn’t wait until Monday. If I waited until Monday, I’d explode.
“Hey there,” Henry said. He was heading out the door.
“Hi, Henry,” I said.
“Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere.”
“You want to grab some dinner?”
“With you?” I said.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I looked at my watch. Tom had probably left the office already, anyway. He was probably hurrying home to have sex with Kate. That’s what you do in the beginning, you hurry home. The shithead.
“Fine,” I said. “That would be fine with me.”
So we went out to dinner. Henry and me. And I was so distracted by thoughts of Tom not calling and Tom fucking Kate and Tom in bed with Kate, spent, thinking idly about not calling me, that it wasn’t until my second glass of wine that I looked across the table at Henry, really looked at him. He was telling me a story about his first apartment in New York. He’s really good-looking, I thought. He was too good-looking, in fact. I’ve always thought that dating a really good-looking guy would be like buying a white couch: it might be nice to have, but you’d waste all that time
worrying
about it. (Tom isn’t bad-looking, if you’re wondering, but he
I was silent.
“Hey, I wish Larry would go bald,” Bonnie said. “Then I could
relax.
”
“Is there anything else?” I said.
“No.”
“Okay.”
We went outside. It was a beautiful day. Bonnie gave me a hug.
“Do yourself a favor, Alison. Don’t mention this whole thing with Tom on your date.”
“I thought the whole point of this date was that I could act like myself.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to act like yourself later, if things go well and he likes you,” said Bonnie. “Right now you should act like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
You know, light. Airy.”
Six
B Y FRIDAY, IT WAS STARTING TO SEEM A LITTLE STRANGE TO ME that Tom hadn’t called. I’d been preparing for his call all week, for the follow-up call, for the call that would give me a chance to say all the things I hadn’t been able to say during the initial call because I’d been so stunned. I was going to tell him that he was a schmuck and an asshole and a fuckhead and an idiot, and I didn’t know what I’d ever seen in him in the first place. I was going to say that he and Kate Pearce deserved each other. I was going to warn him that she was going to leave him again, just like she had the first time, and he’d better not come crawling back to me, because I won’t take him back, not in a million years, not for all the tea in China, not if he was the last man on Earth. I was going over this stuff again in my head while I was sitting at my desk late on Friday when it hit me: maybe Tom wasn’t going to call me, ever. Maybe he thought “I’m in love with somebody else” covered everything. Maybe he wasn’t even going to give me the satisfaction of telling him what a schmuck and an asshole and a fuckhead and an idiot he was. That would be just like him, the bastard.
Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I had to call him. I had to call him and tell him that we needed to have a talk, a face-to-face talk, that I deserved at least that much consideration. If nothing else, we had the business of cohabitation to discuss. I mean, was he planning to pay his half of the rent for the next month? Did he expect me to warehouse his personal effects indefinitely? Tom might be hoping to swoon around in a sex haze a while longer, content to wear his friends’ old suits to work so he could put off a confrontation with me, but I had details to attend to, plans to make.
I looked at my watch. It was six-fifteen. I realized I had to make the call right away, because if I didn’t catch him before he left work, I’d be forced to wait until Monday, because I didn’t know where he was sleeping. I knew who he was sleeping with, but I had no idea where. I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairwell, in search of a pay phone. I couldn’t wait until Monday. If I waited until Monday, I’d explode.
“Hey there,” Henry said. He was heading out the door.
“Hi, Henry,” I said.
“Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere.”
“You want to grab some dinner?”
“With you?” I said.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I looked at my watch. Tom had probably left the office already, anyway. He was probably hurrying home to have sex with Kate. That’s what you do in the beginning, you hurry home. The shithead.
“Fine,” I said. “That would be fine with me.”
So we went out to dinner. Henry and me. And I was so distracted by thoughts of Tom not calling and Tom fucking Kate and Tom in bed with Kate, spent, thinking idly about not calling me, that it wasn’t until my second glass of wine that I looked across the table at Henry, really looked at him. He was telling me a story about his first apartment in New York. He’s really good-looking, I thought. He was too good-looking, in fact. I’ve always thought that dating a really good-looking guy would be like buying a white couch: it might be nice to have, but you’d waste all that time
worrying
about it. (Tom isn’t bad-looking, if you’re wondering, but he
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