Behind His Lens(13)

I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say other than you have no idea.

The subway screeches to a stop and more New Yorkers file into the confined space. An elderly Latino woman sinks into the seat in front of us, clutching her oversized purse on top of her feeble lap. I focus on her, studying the colorful pattern on her bag and the beautiful mix of charcoal and ashen tones in her hair. She’s a nice distraction from Naomi’s prudent stare that I feel burning a hole into the side of my face.

When I’m silent for another minute, Naomi finally nudges my shoulder. “I forgot to tell you that my friend from work is playing a soccer game in Central Park today. I told him we’d run by and say hello if we got the chance.”

I don’t really feel like meeting her friends. It doesn’t matter though. I already closed up the option of discussing Jude and saying no to chatting with her friend would hurt her feelings.

So I plaster on a simple smile and turn toward her.

“Sounds good. Have I met him before?”

“Nope. He works in a different department and we only met last week during one of our company-wide meetings. His name’s Bennett.”

I mull over the name, trying to recall if I knew any Bennett’s growing up, but no one comes to mind. “Sounds cute,” I confer. “Is he a friend-friend? Or a friend-soontobedatingfriend?”

Her lips curl into a private smile and her honey-brown eyes stay pinned to her leggings. Even without a reply, it’s obvious she’s excited about potentially running into him.

“Good, at least one of us is going to get some,” I wink as the subway pulls up to our stop.

…

“He said they’re on the Great Lawn near 85th street,” Naomi declares between shallow breaths as we stop for water.

I brush away the drop of sweat trickling down my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sounds good. Let’s take the outer loop and we’ll cut across to the lawn.”

She nods in agreement and pulls the plastic water bottle from her mouth, but then she hesitates. Her shoulders slump and her dark brows furrow in thought.

“Am I an idiot for agreeing to meet up with him after I’ve gone running?” she asks. It’s rare to see the vulnerable side of Naomi and I never quite know how to approach it.

“Why? You look athletic and glowing!” I assure her, and she does actually. The whore.

“I don’t believe you,” she huffs as we start to jog again. We pull out onto the trail behind a group of mom’s pushing strollers and running full speed as if they’re competing in a marathon. Only in New York.

“You look double skinny, like dehydrated-chic,” I try to tell her with a straight face, but then we both crumble into hysterical laughter.

All joking aside, I can count on one hand the number of insecure moments Naomi has had in the four years we’ve been best friends.

“Naomi. Do you honestly think I would let you meet this guy if you looked anything but gorgeous right now? Hasn’t it been proven that men like the smell of women after they’ve worked out? Something about the pheromones.” She’s smiling by this point, so I know I’ve got her hooked.

“I’m pretty sure men like women if they have the correct hip to waist ratio for making babies.” She drawls out her speech, as if saying the word “babies” like an old burly man would. We both burst out laughing one again as we run and I have to grip my side as a sharp cramp forms. Why do I think trying to run with her is a good idea?

I sigh, “God… Why does that sound so gross to me?”

“Because it’s weird. If I remember correctly from freshman psych, we like men when they smell like they’ve worked out because we know they can take care of us… evolutionarily speaking. It’s like survival of the f*ck-ablest,” she adds with a wink.

Just then, an overly tanned, muscley man straight off the Jersey Shore runs by in a bright neon green track suit. I glance over toward Naomi the second he’s out of earshot.

“Oh, yeah. I bet he could take care of me. He looks like an alpha hunter-gatherer for sure…” I raise my eyebrows suggestively and we both erupt in another fit of giggles.

“Don’t even go there.”

Not even in my dry spell would I go for a man like that. Wait— can you call it a dry spell when you haven’t had sex in three years? More like the freaking Dust Bowl.

The Great Lawn is gorgeous. It’s what most people imagine when they think of Central Park. A multitude of trails wind throughout the park, but the Great Lawn is an undivided, sprawling space with fresh, soft grass, rimmed with maple and pine trees.