You (You #1)(47)

Nobody is watching us. Nobody is mad at us. Nothing is wrong with us. The waiter in the red jacket who brought us two tall glasses of ice and two cocktail napkins and two small glasses of cold vodka was respectful and good. The drawings on the walls are good, just like they were when I saw them online when I was figuring out where to take you on my golden chariot to train your brain into thinking of me as your passport to money and leather banquettes. I make less than every dude in here, including the waiter.

“Joe.”

“Beck.”

“I want you. Now.” You sound all gooey and warm.

But a fucking waiter approaches, slow, mannered. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Huh?”

You pull away and cross your legs and bite your lip. Are we getting busted for PDA? He bows, slightly. “Miss, are you Miss Beck?”

“I’m Beck,” you say and the waiter is confused. “Yes, I’m Miss Beck. What’s wrong?”

Everything.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt but you’ve received a rather urgent phone call from Miss Peach.”

“Oh God.” You cover your throat and it’s over. You’re not safe anymore.

He looks at me and I nod. He goes and you’re tearing into your purse and all that we just did is melting faster than the leftover ice cubes.

“That’s weird,” I say and you’re still rummaging. You carry too much shit around.

“I can’t find my phone.”

“How did she know you were here?”

You blush. “I may have tweeted.”

Beck, Beck, this was supposed to be our night, alone. I did this for you. Those slits were for me and that bra was for me and your panties were for me. How is this going to work if you can’t get through a few hours without looking for an audience? There’s a pact you make when you slide into a booth and shove your hand down a man’s pants, Beck. There’s no tweeting when you’re fucking and what am I gonna do with you? I want to scream and get more ice but I have to breathe and drink and say nothing.

“Joe, you’re not mad, right?”

“No.”

“I’ve never been here. When you were in the bathroom, I dunno,” you say and you got your phone and you use it to tap me on the arm and I turn to you. “Joe, I’m so happy to be here. I’ve always wanted to go here and I was just excited.”

“It’s fine.”

“I should call Peach.”

“Okay, Miss Beck. You go call Peach.”

Every guy in here watches you slip out and two dudes look at you like they have a shot with you and I would like nothing more than to kick some ass. We were supposed to walk out of this bar together. You’re not meant to glide alone in your slutty pink skirt all wrinkled. You unnecessarily lay a hand on the doorman’s arm asking what, I do not know and that skirt is a little too see-through, if you want to know the truth. It’s gonna be hard to break you, this hungry public part of you that wants to be noticed and observed. You need an escort, Beck, especially if you want to dress like a fucking whore.

“The fuck you looking at?” I say to the primary offender, a shithead at the bar who’s still staring at the door you walked out of like he’s planning on which part of your little whore body he’s gonna fuck first. He’s about a hundred years old, not scared, but I’ll put the fear in him if he doesn’t get in line.

You call from the lobby, “Joe! We have to go. We have to go now.”

The old guy laughs at me and you shiver, impatient. “I’ll get a cab.”

“I gotta pay.”

“I grabbed the waiter on the way in,” you say, all newly dismissive. “It’s fine. That horse taxi thingy must have cost a fortune.”

And just like that you turned all my good work at making you feel like a princess into shit. You paid and I’m not the man and Tucker Max is somewhere laughing at me with the geezer at the bar and the cartoons are laughing at me and the waiter who makes more than me is laughing at me and you open the door to the cab—you strip all the man out of me piece by piece and I’m your phone bitch and your skirt is a mess—and it can’t get worse but it does.

“Where you headed?”

“Seventy-First and Central Park West.”

“Peach okay?” I say, surprised that I’m capable of talking out loud.

“No,” you say as you tie your hair back with an elastic in that big fucking sexless purse you brought as if you knew it was gonna wind up like this. “You’ll never believe what happened.”





19


EVERYTHING peaks. It’s just the nature of all life.

As we cab over to Peach’s, I feel more and more certain that I peaked in the carriage (not a “horse taxi thingy” as you said), and I know I will never be that great of a man ever again. I will never be in that precise place, having picked you up and literally swept you off your feet with your skin fresh and your skirt clean and the night still ahead of us. It’s like Michael Cunningham says in The Hours: Happiness is believing that you’re gonna be happy. It’s hope.

Peach took my hope away. You’re reading e-mails and sending texts and how do you hold on to me for the first time in our life together and shut it off? You’re a million miles away from me, talking to people who have nothing to do with us.