Like a Love Story(32)

He’s the one who asks for the check. And when the waitress brings it, he insists on paying. “A real gentleman,” she says, not to him, but to me, like she’s telling me how rare a real gentleman is.

Oh, I know, fabulous waitress.

After Reza pays, he excuses himself to the bathroom, and the waitress lingers. “You’re glowing,” she tells me. “You don’t glow like this when you come in with your other friend.”

“Am I?” I ask. “I guess it’s because my other friend is gay.”

“You’re also looking gorgeous tonight,” she says. “I love your dress.”

I love downtown. I belong here. “Do you think he likes me?” I ask conspiratorially.

“Definitely,” she says. “Body language, baby. He was leaning in. His hands were on your side of the table most of the time. His feet were too.”

“Really? I didn’t even notice.”

Of course you noticed, Judy. Why are you lying?

She takes Reza’s money and heads to the back. When Reza returns, we step outside. The waitress’s words run through my mind. As we walk, I try to observe his “body language.” He walks next to me, but not so close we’re touching. His hands are in his pockets, nowhere near mine. But then, at one point, his foot grazes mine. “Oh, sorry,” he says.

Maybe he did that on purpose. Maybe he was communicating his desire to touch you with this accidental kick.

“I think we should get ice cream,” he says. “Since you love it. And I love it, too.”

I smile, really excited, like we have something highly unusual in common, as if 99 percent of the world doesn’t love ice cream.

He gets chocolate and coconut. I get mint chocolate chip and French vanilla. As we eat, we pass a street vendor selling jewelry, sunglasses, and hats. We stop and browse. I throw a beret on him, and he laughs. “I look like a fool,” he says.

“No, you look adorable,” I say. “Like an existentialist.”

He puts the beret back in its pile, unconvinced.

“Hey, could I make you over?” I ask.

“Make me over into what?” he asks.

“You know, like, make clothes for you. If I made clothes for you, would you wear them? I promise they will be very cool, and cut to perfection.”

He looks at me with surprise. “I would really like that,” he says.

My eyes fall on some pins the vendor is selling. Tiny laminated fish, one beady eye staring out through the plastic. “Are those, um, real fish?” I ask.

“Of course,” the vendor says. “These pins are special. Fish represent life.”

“Do they?” I ask.

“Read the Bible!” the man says.

“We’ll take two,” Reza says. He pays for the pins and puts one on himself, then one on me. As he pins me, his hand grazes against my boob. Body language. I feel like one of those pretty girls in fifties movies, getting pinned by the guy in the varsity jacket. Except our pins have dead fish in them, and his varsity jacket is a Madonna shirt, and my cheerleader uniform is a fabulous sunflower yellow outfit. I take my last lick of ice cream.

And that’s when I look across the street at Manic Panic, and I see . . . her.

Debbie Harry.

She’s dressed in head-to-toe red. Red leggings. A body-hugging red dress, the back low-cut. Red boots, with stilettos. Her hair is ice blond, a red streak through it, like a punk Jean Harlow. She wears a chunky cross around her neck, and another necklace with big silver Xs running up and down it. Her lips are ruby red, too. I say, “Holy shit Reza, that’s DEBBIE HARRY.” No, I don’t say it. I scream it. And in doing so, I alert everyone on the block. Debbie must hear me too, because she waves to me, then steps into a black car.

It’s a sign. It must be sign. When does this just happen? When does a guy bring you your favorite flowers the same night you see Debbie Harry on Saint Mark’s Place?

“Is that the backup singer you were telling me about?” Reza asks.

“No!” I say. “That’s the LEAD SINGER. That’s one of the most fabulous stars in the whole world. And we . . . saw . . . her.”

Art will hate that he missed this moment. He’ll act happy for me, but he’ll be green with envy as I describe her red perfection.

Don’t think about Art, Judy. This is your moment.

“I like to see you so happy,” Reza says.

My whole body feels alive, like a new life is beginning, like Debbie has transferred some of her energy to me. And that’s when I lean in and kiss Reza.

Rapture. That’s what it feels like.

I pull away. “I think I was supposed to let you do that,” I say. “If you even wanted to.”

He blushes, his eyes nervously darting around.

“Unless you didn’t want to . . . ? If so, I’m really sorry.” Suddenly I feel like the biggest fool on earth.

“Do not apologize,” he finally says. “I’m so happy you did that. You have no idea how good that makes me feel.”

Now he pulls me in, his hands on my love handles. I understand why they’re called love handles now. It’s rapture.





December 1989


“Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.”