Sweetbitter(100)

“You were bored,” I said. “You’re bored out of your mind. That’s why you fucked with me.”

She blinked a few times. “No, Tess. I know why you want to tell yourself that. But it’s not so simple. I believed it too—that we were a family.”

I didn’t know if she meant the whole restaurant or the three of us. It didn’t matter. I bit into a potato chip and it crackled. My mouth flooded. The bare bulb palpitated at the same pace as my heart.

“You will be fine,” she said. She ate a chip and considered her last statement. “You weren’t going to be here forever. You can get a real job now. A real boyfriend. Live in real time. Don’t roll your eyes.”

“I’m thinking about wine. Like retail, there’s a shop off Bedford I like.”

“Yes, that’s wonderful, you’ll be fine there. I know someone at Chambers, I would be happy to make a call. Howard will provide an excellent reference as well.”

“I fucking bet he will.” I wanted to feel anger at all of them, I wanted to feel used, but it never coalesced. “I have some money. I’m going to take some time.”

“That’s smart,” she said. We both took a chip. “You will be fine.”

I don’t know if she repeated that for my benefit or hers. I saw this from above, our chips and Champagne. I saw the kitchen, family meal being set up in the dining room, the locker room where I would gather the trash and residue of my locker and put it in a plastic bag in case something became important enough to keep. Eventually nothing would be important and I would throw it all away.

The salt off the chips stuck to my fingers and I tapped them together, the salt breaking off, and I heard someone roll a hand truck through the dining room above our heads. The lingering taste in my mouth was of chalk and content, disarray and lemons. There wasn’t a hint of regret. I spoke slowly, not knowing what was coming but knowing it was final. I looked at her. “Of course, I’ll be fine. I will never be anything but grateful.”

—

I DIDN’T REMEMBER the right things, let me try again: the herds of Hasidic children on the South Side street corners at midnight, the calls of the Empanada Man walking on Roebling while I napped, Empanada, Empanada, hours lost walking in circles on artless blocks with Jake, while he punctuated his thoughts with a cigarette, all of us running outside to the middle of Sixteenth Street to watch that bloodred sun drop into the Hudson, drinking beer out of paper bags with Scott while we hopped the bars on Grand Street, Will teaching me karate moves on the subway platform, the gorgeous, orange, abraded tongues of uni that we spread on toast, Ariel and me on the bridge at sunrise, singing, the commuters pushing against us and we knew a secret that they didn’t, which is that life didn’t progress unswervingly, it didn’t accumulate, it was wiped as clean as the board at the end of the night and if we kept our spirits up, it meant we were inexhaustible.

I think it was Nicky who used to say, “Life is what happens when you’re waiting.” I don’t know, it’s a cliché at this point. That doesn’t make it untrue. My life had been so full I couldn’t glimpse beyond it. I didn’t want to. And really, would it ever be as loud? As satisfying? Always this desire for the wildest, the closest to its source, the most pungent, the most accelerated—that’s who we were. Even if we forgot the regulars, forgot the specials, forgot to clock in.

It was Simone who used to say, on her better days, “Don’t worry, little one, none of this will leave a scratch.”

But I see the marks on people. Strangers who sit at the bar alone and order a drink with intimacy, order the chicken liver mousse and chat with the staff. People who pay attention to their plates in a way I want to call worshipful. I see them on myself: the scratches, scars. No, I didn’t wait forever, but in that way we were all lifers.

Those flowers are wilting already.

It’s just my usual five o’clock abyss.

And that guy has a girlfriend.

God, they should make a reality show here.

When will I stop being so moved?

Turns out there are a million theories on purgatory.

When will I learn?

Yeah, Scott put in his notice—Chef is livid.

And she just went out the back.

But like, there’s no arc in a love story.

It’s like a pizza place in Bushwick.

Well, style triumphed over content.

30 needs attention.

That’s what happens in the city.

Not too sentimental, that one.

The plums are real.

New York has perfected it.

But the cake is imaginary.

You don’t have to cultivate cynicism, it flowers naturally.

I mean, Stalin was an angel in comparison.

But why would she bring gardenias?

I’m weeded.

35 is helpless.

Move them.

It’s too rare, even for me.

You know when you gamble that you’re going to lose.

I’m dragging, make it a double.

What did she expect?

And win just enough.

I guess you just had to be there.

Three fucking turns.

On a Tuesday.

Jesus, we were slammed all night.