thing about gay men is how they assume instant emotional intimacy with almost any single woman whom they meet. That, combined with the fact that I babysat Booboo, probably meant Christopher and I were family.
I took a gulp of my margarita and made no attempt to respond.
“Don’t you at least want to hear his explanation?” he asked, lifting and sniffing each of the candles on my coffee table, and scoping out my copies of The Economist, Newsweek, and Jane magazine. He was probably looking for the Vogue I didn’t have. For a new best friend, his loyalties were all wrong.
“Not really,” I answered, grabbing a package of double-chocolate Oreos from the cupboard. “I think the child speaks for himself.”
“Does he? How old is he?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I kicked his feet off my coffee table before putting down the Oreos.
“I know.”
“Look, I just don’t think he should have the right to explain himself. He forfeited all of his rights when he cheated on me. And made a fool out of me by keeping it a secret. You have no idea how humiliated I am.” I swallowed one cookie, and twisted off the top of another.
“Wait a minute. You mean your friends knew about this?” he stopped.
“I don’t know if they knew, or if they didn’t. The point is that he’s got me wondering if any of them knew. He made me look like a naive, trusting idiot!”
“To who?”
“To myself.”
After a moment of silence during which he contemplated the inside of an open-faced cookie, Christopher decided, “I don’t like double-chocolate.”
“What?”
“The Oreos. They’re double-chocolate flavored. I don’t like ’em.”
“Oh, okay. Well, me, either.” I sucked down the rest of my margarita and then refilled my mug.
“Then why did you buy them?”
I huffed, rubbing my forehead. “Because it was all they had. You know, you’re not a very good houseguest.”
He placed the offending Oreo on the coffee table and lifted Booboo to his feet, before returning his attention to me. “So you’re really gonna let your ego rule your life?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m cutting my losses. I’m being practical. Doesn’t anybody understand that? It’s what it means to be an adult.”
Christopher shrugged, and made Booboo dance before his own ref lection in my mirror. I sank deeper into my chair.
“Hmm, this reminds me of an article I was reading online,” I began, absentmindedly dipping an Oreo into my margarita. I took a bite, which made me gag and immediately spit a mouthful into a paper towel. Christopher was too busy checking the ref lection of his soon-to-be-bald spot in my mirror to notice, so I continued. “The article said something about the similarities between financially independent women and gay men in our dating rituals. Maybe that’s why you think you know how my mind works.”
“Think I know?” He turned around.
“Anyway, the title of the article was ‘You Don’t Get What You Deserve…You Get What You Settle For,’” I slurred, sliding down far enough in my chair to prop my mug on top of my stomach.
“Yeah, sure. Fascinating. Whatever. Listen, you don’t think I look like an accountant, do you?”
Yes…I thought, while I shook my head and insisted, “No! Not at all.”
“You must kill at poker. You’re really too good at telling people what they want to hear.” He smiled. “And for the record, you definitely do not look like an investment banker. Anyway, I’m sorry about Jon. But I think you should seriously consider sleeping with him at least one more time. For me. He sounded sexy over the intercom.”
“You probably think I should sleep with everybody.”
“Well, thank you for the blanket presumption that all gay men are promiscuous,” he said, trying to act offended. “Besides, not everybody, honey. You’re far too sweet for that, even though you try to act like a hard-ass. You leave the skanking to me. For you, just the men you love.”
“Loved,” I corrected him.
With one hand on his hip, he concluded, “Oh, honey, who do you think you’re kidding?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s turning my stomach almost as much as these margaritas and Oreos.”
“Then let’s talk about your weekend. How was that wedding? Did you meet the man of your dreams?”
“No.” I tried hard to focus on Christopher’s face despite my blurring eyes. “But I think I might have met the man of yours.”
9
Hung over, lying on the floor of her apartment, spooning a severely obese cat while being spooned by its gay, balding owner, with the remains of margaritas and Oreos plastered to the roof of her mouth is no way for a respectable Desi girl to wake up.
I struggled to my feet after shaking Christopher awake. And when I noticed a new stiffness in my neck, I thought to myself, Something has got to change.
Coffee was a priority, but as usual on a Monday morning the line at Starbucks stretched into oblivion. Of the three grocery stores within a four-block radius of my office, only one wasn’t out of my way. Unfortunately, it was also the one that was open twenty-four hours, and where personal space was a luxury. I particularly avoided that place before nine a.m. on weekdays, since the middle-aged Indian man working that shift had a habit of eyeing me like a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala while asking suggestively if I were from Punjab. I expected better from my own kind.
I was approaching the register when I noticed a man matching my pace and coming from the opposite aisle. He stopped short and extended an arm, offering a flirtatious smile along with an After you. He was attractive, in a Magnum P.I. kind of way. Normally, I might’ve taken the opportunity to get my own early-morning-flirt on, but the light of recent events helped me see the situation more clearly. He was probably using me to cheat emotionally on the wife he had waiting at home. And if not, then like most men in this cesspool of a city he would probably just as soon hit on me at a bar if I were wearing something low-cut as he would steal my cab on the street if it were raining. I denied him my smile, slammed a dollar on the counter, and headed for the door. I was making a statement on behalf of women everywhere. Without saying a word.
Outside I noticed something over the tilted rim of my coffee cup, which made me stop. I caught a glimpse of a rosy-cheeked, double-chinned woman on the opposite side of Lexington Avenue, dancing gleefully for commuters’ loose change. I crossed over to find “It Had To Be You” booming out of her battery-powered radio. Judging by the wisps of white hair peeking out from underneath her bandana, she must’ve been about sixty-five years old. A self-styled Gypsy, she shut her eyes tightly while twisting in delight, like a schoolgirl crooning into her hairbrush. A small crowd had formed around her, and I found myself staring as much at her as at the people. A man dropped a
