The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel by Laurie Graff Page A

on my standard story about my family’s drink of choice being the water from New York City taps.
    “My father’s been known to dip into the martinis,” I say, not lying.
    “Oh, really?” For some reason Josh likes this. “Hey—you want one? This place is known for their Purple French martini. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
    “Of course,” I say. “Like father, like daughter.” Except I don’t want a martini, purple, pink, Italian, or French. I want a glass of merlot.
One
glass. And I should have said that because it’s not a Jewish/ not-Jewish thing; it’s just my thing.
    “Cool. My last girlfriend would never have anything but a glass of red wine, if she would even drink at all. Jewish girls.” Josh shakes his head. “Uptight. Glad you’re open,” he says. “It’s way more fun.”
    Two Purple French martinis arrive. Josh lifts his glass for a toast. “To way more fun.”
    “Oh, yes.” I take a gulp of mine. “Way more.” I feel the first gulp land.
Whoa!
And suddenly it’s not quite as important, but tell me again what a light drinker has to do with being uptight?
    But I’m not. Color me purple. Besides that, I feel like I haven’t eaten for a year, and the food is amazing. We’ve gone through those appetizers. Josh is on his second French Fuchsia Fancy; I’m still flying from my first. He likes to talk about himself, and since I can’t, with complete authenticity, talk about me, I’m quite happy to listen. And laugh. He’s funny. Actually everything is.
    “So when did you move to the city?” asks Josh. He leans across the table, fork-feeding me the pasta while I rip apart a dish called Drunken Chicken and am I ever.
    “Feels like I’ve been here all my life,” I say, or maybe slur. “You?”
    “Bought my apartment on East Twenty-second almost two years ago. When I started with LoveLoaves, I stayed on the island. Then I rented a studio uptown. But most of the time I stayed with that girlfriend in her place. We were involved, in and out, a really long time. But it didn’t work out.”
    “What happened?”
    “We originally met in law school, years ago. Hooked up much later. Oh yeah, I had bigger aspirations than the family business.” Josh gives me a wink. “But I quit. Hated the grind.”
    “I can understand,” I say, remembering Sam. Hmmm, another Jewish lawyer. Sort of.
    “So she was on the partner track. Total workaholic. And in the end really disappointed I wasn’t quite the Jewish professional she hoped me to be.” Josh pauses and takes a swig of his martini right here. “She wanted what she wanted, and, I have to tell you, it kind of made me rethink Jewish women.”
    “Well, all Jewish women aren’t the same.” Though in some ways I feel Josh has just described me. I wonder if Peter’s out on a date now telling that same story to some real non-Jewish woman.
    “Well, none of them are like you,” he says. He’s got that right. “How come no one has snatched you up? When was your last big boyfriend?”
    “Oh, pretty recent. But we also had, uh . . . well, we had lifestyle differences too.”
    “Like?”
    “Like career stuff,” I say, “and you know, direction-type stuff and stuff with re”—I catch myself before it’s too late.
    “What?”
    “Re . . . recreation. We, ummm, we liked to recreate very differently.” Relieved with the ease I got out of that, I smile.
    “Are you adorable or what?”
    Happy to take the compliment, I smile again.
    “Hmmm . . . I have a hunch you like to ski, do you?” he asks. “Because Alpine, in New Jersey, has a pretty good cross-country trail, and I’m going with a few friends soon, and I’d love if you’d come.”
    “Wow.”
    “Great. You have your own skis?”
    “I do. I did. But now I don’t. I mean they’re . . . I left them at my parents’ house. In Pennsylvania.”
    “You want to take a ride to—”
    “No! Definitely no. My mother’s using them.” I say. “To lose weight.”
Oy vey
, I think