Not What I Expected
We both agreed: eff it, let’s not cook. It was the first hot night in May, and the air had that 7 p.m. green/grey heaviness. This usually heralds the kind of thunderstorm that, in 15 minutes, cleans the air of the fragrances of the now-ubiquitous reefer and garbage, to be replaced by ozone and the leaves of the valiant sycamores in Central Park.
Our jobs were energy vampires: Vanessa endures her waitership at an expense-account Midtown restaurant where Amex Platinum holders pay $32 for a mediocre burger. I’m an IT guy for a hedge fund. Our life-force was too low that evening for us to weave around each other to cook in what was risibly described by the coiffed realtor as a Manhattan “kitchenette.”
So, after we changed into our civilian gear (jeans and Converse for me; pale blue sundress for Vanessa) we headed out to Wok Cottage, our default neighborhood joint about 6 blocks away on Amsterdam. Yeah, it’s nothing to look at, but the food was consistently good, and we loved the whole old-school Chinese restaurant vibe: the grimy plastic-encased menus with the red edges still dangling ancient gold tassels; the torn leatherette booths; the paper placemats with the Chinese Zodiac (amusingly, we were both Year of The Rat); the hint of orange in the fortune cookies.
Right away, I could tell something was off the moment we sat down. Vanessa usually sits next to me in the 4-person booth that we always gravitate towards. Tonight, though, she sat opposite me; what was that? A classic Vanessa move would be to suggest some absurdly gross item (rabbit head is always a sound choice, as is duck blood soup). But this evening she immediately suggested the usual Szechuan beef.
If I’ve learned anything from stand-up comedians, it’s to not ask questions, but to let your girlfriend get there on her own dime. So, I waited. And sure enough, it came before the waiter did.
“Dave? Can we talk?”
Oh, shit. “Sure, of course. What’s up, V?”
“So listen. Are you happy?”
Is there a right answer to that question? If you say yes, and they disagree, you’re an asshole. If you say, “uh, not really,” but they are happy, you’re still an asshole. I warily cocked my head.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “We like the same music, we like the same bands, we like the same clothes….”
She knew that this quote from Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” would make me smile and lighten the mood. Still, I waited.
“I know that this is out of the blue and we have never discussed it, and you probably never even thought about it, but…. (deep breath). What about you and me getting married this summer?”
She was wrong. I had thought about it, plenty. But can I be honest? I had always thought Vanessa was a bit out of my league, with her careless beauty, quick wit and an effortless ability to charm any group, anytime. And so, I was kind of waiting for the shoe to drop, thinking that I was on borrowed time to begin with, and when the inevitable breakup came, I’d just be grateful for what I had had.
Continue reading “Umbrella” by Peter Rustin
THE CITY KEY 