Writers & Lovers(46)

She hangs up on me. I hope she doesn’t delete my name from her calendar.

I try to write something new. It’s bad and I stop after a few sentences. Even though I didn’t feel it at the time, I got into a rhythm with the old novel. I knew those characters and how to write them. I heard their voices and I saw their gestures and anything else feels fake and stiff. I ache for them, people I also once felt were stiff and fake, but who now seem like the only people I could ever write about.





‘So,’ Oscar says. ‘I think you should come to the house for supper Sunday night.’

‘Whoa.’

‘I know.’

I’m on the kitchen line. Thomas is cranking Nirvana, and I have to plug my other ear.

‘You still there?’

‘In shock.’

‘It’s a school night, so we’ll eat at six sharp. How do you feel about chicken sticks and cucumber slices?’

‘Love them.’ My heart is whomping. Chicken sticks and cucumber slices. I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for this invitation all along.

I go back to rolling silver in the dining room with Tony and Dana and Harry. We’re at one of the round tables, and Craig has mixed up a pitcher of sangria. Angus from the kitchen has joined us, already in street clothes. Fabiana and the new waiter, James, is there, too. He’s Scottish, somber, silent as the grave. Harry is smitten.

‘That one of your lovas?’ Tony says. I made the mistake of telling him about my dilemma one slow night last week.

‘Which one?’ Harry says.

‘Oscar. He wants me to have dinner with his kids.’

‘Kids? No.’ Craig says. ‘Dump that dude.’

‘Torn between two lovers,’ Dana is singing.

‘What’re they like?’ Angus says. ‘We’ll help you decide right now.’

‘Who says I’m deciding?’ I do need to choose, though. I’ve reached the elimination round. ‘So one is my age and quirky and we talk about death a lot. The morning of our first date he left town for three weeks but he came back and I get physically disoriented after kissing him. I’m always surprised when he calls because I assume he’s going to bail.’ No one said anything, so I go on. ‘And the other one is like a herd dog. He calls between dates and leaves me funny messages when I’m at work and doesn’t hide how he feels about me. He’s older and has two kids and can be pretty adorable.’

They look as stumped as I am.

‘The second one’s Oscar Kolton, the writer, isn’t it?’ Craig says. ‘I saw him ogling you that day.’

‘Just pick the one you like to fuck,’ James says, the first words he’s ever said to me.

‘She hasn’t fucked either of them,’ Harry says, which isn’t his to tell, but I know he can’t resist talking to James about fucking.

‘Well, there’s your problem,’ James says.

‘There’s a big difference between love and sex,’ Craig says.

‘Pay attention to what they say, not what they do,’ Yasmin says.

Angus laughs. ‘Don’t pay any attention at all to what we say!’

‘You don’t always want what you need,’ Dana says.

‘It’s always a choice between fireworks and coffee in bed,’ Fabiana says. ‘It always is.’

‘You lot are useless,’ Harry says. ‘I’m with James.’ He looks up from folding a napkin, but James is watching Angus drain his sangria.

Craig mixes up another pitcher. ‘Imagine you have a roommate who is really hot and awesome,’ he says to me. ‘Which of your guys wouldn’t sleep with her?’

‘Imagine you have a kid that spikes a fever of a hundred and five,’ Fabiana says. ‘Which one won’t freak out?’

‘Or imagine you have a kid and the kid is possessed and starts spewing blood all over the walls.’ Angus says.

‘Or you’re climbing Everest and your kid is buried in an avalanche on the Kangshung Face,’ James says. ‘Which one rips off his clothes to make a new baby with you?’

‘Listen, Casey Kasem,’ Dana says, tossing her last roll-up onto the pile. ‘You spend enough time at the racetrack, you know your horse, okay? You always know your horse.’





Sunday night the roads are quiet. I cross Comm. Ave. easily, without the usual wait, and have the BU Bridge to myself. It’s dusk and the river is pink and no boats break the stillness. I ride by the Sunoco station where Luke and I said goodbye. The marigolds are gone now. I’m not sure when I stopped noticing them. I feel an unexpected sense of accomplishment as I pedal past. I pass the geese, only a handful, stomping at the edge of the water like swimmers bracing for the cold. Then the footbridge where Silas kissed me. My insides wheel up and over, but he’s probably back from Gettysburg by now and hasn’t called and I am going to eat chicken fingers and cucumber slices with Oscar and his boys.

All the lights are on at their house. I lean my bike against some stiff bushes near the front steps, and while I’m looking for a bell or a knocker the door opens a crack. A snout appears.

‘Hello, Bob.’

Bob barks once. The sound frightens him, and he disappears back in the house yelping.