looked to me suspiciously. I did have a ‘thing’ with Barb.
“Anyway,” he continued, “as you know, 4,000 square feet is a ridiculous amount of space—almost obscene. With three bedrooms and baths, we could easily let out a room and we’d still have to make an appointment if we wanted to meet up with our renter. Once your career gets on track—and you’ll become this famous and successful artist that your husband will live off of—we will by then have our own place. Never have to give up our lifestyles—move to the burbs, consider landscaping, zoning, and the malaise of a community from the arrival of an Olive Garden.”
Renter? Olive Garden? I didn’t like the reality aspect of this conversation. (Though I did love reality TV.)
“Renting out a room? In our newlywed year?”
“Just for a short while,” he said hopefully.
“Okay,” I said. Then, shedding some pragmatic insight of my own. “But where would we find a renter? Surely it would have to be someone we know and trust.”
“Good point, Emily,” he said, as if I’d made an interesting observation while he taught me about the Peloponnesian War (something, for whatever reason unknown to me, he’s been known to do in the past). “It so happens that I just called a friend of mine, Taz Derning, who needs to move to New York from London.”
“Taz Derning? His name is Taz?”
What the hell kind of name was Taz?
“And what does he do, adapt Puccini operas into movies?”
“Well, his name is actually abbreviated,” Henry trailed off, and then there was a funny silence.
“Abbreviated from what?”
“It’s pretty amusing—quite hysterical actually. His real name is Tasmanian Devil, but of course that’s quite a mouthful. So he just goes by Taz.”
Hysterical.
“You’re expecting a girl who uses five economy-sized bottles of Windex a week to live with a guy named Taz? After the Tasmanian Devil!”
Henry nodded in affirmation.
“Me? Who, to use your description, does a Navajo rain dance outside our apartment before removing my shoes so no grain of dirt will get into our home? Live with a beast that leaves crushed tin cans and fish bones in the wake of his dusty trail?”
“Emily, just picture Reade Street.”
The staircase, the columns, and those glorious windows—the loft was better than a chichi downtown art gallery that held openings where Carmen Kass and Lenny Kravitz made appearances. Hmm. Perhaps I could moonlight our home as an art gallery for my collections? As I was becoming disturbed by the idea of cigarette stubs and muddy shoes soiling the floors, Henry chimed in.
“At least think this through, Emily. He’ll pay whatever we ask.”
“Fine,” I said, somewhat taken aback by my voice’s preadolescent tone. Becoming more composed, I said softly, “I will think it over. Can we just forget about all these pragmatics now, I’ve had quite a day.”
“Well, then I have just the thing for you.”
Henry reached into his satchel and displayed a sapphire blue velvet box on the table, the Formica diner table of Jerry’s. A high-end diner that was essentially the same as any other diner, except they had chromed coat racks at the sides of the booths and added warm mesclun salad to their menu to justify the more expensive prices.
He flicked the box across the table with a snap of his fingers, where I was expected to open it. Frozen, I reminded myself of my original hope where we would buy a ring together, considered ways of saying how I’d rather not see what was inside the box.
“Well? You really aren’t quite yourself. I assumed you’d open that box quicker than a carton of Ben & Jerry’s.”
Paying him with a polite smile, I did as I was told.
Snapping open the box, I should have been wearing my reading glasses, as it was easier to read the fine print on not-meant-to-be-read electronic warranties than see this excuse for a diamond. Imagine dropping a glass, sweeping up the broken pieces onto a chopping block, and further smashing them with a hammer. One of those shards would be about the same size as my diamond that I would have to happily cherish, wear as a testimony of love to my husband till he passes on, which will probably be before me, as I am going to make his life miserable for presenting me with such a ring.
“It was my grandmother’s,” said Henry, happily doing the honor of prodding the ring from its cushioned insert and sliding it onto my finger, where it lopped to the side. And not because of the weight of the diamond. It didn’t fit. Henry’s grandmother must have been a big woman.
“Look at your elegant little finger. You do have gorgeous hands.” He pulled my hand to him to give it a closer look. “Hmm. Looks as if you may have something to add to your To Do list.”
What? You mean pawn this off and get a new one with your credit card!
“It’s a bit big for you. You’ll have to get it resized. Otherwise, what do you think?”
“It’s. Nice,” I said with extreme care and great force.
Our waitress approached the table, and I noticed she took the same fashion direction as Barracuda Barb, wearing the ubiquitous tight V-necked sweater to accentuate her cleavage. They probably sold them three to a pack. I then watched Henry watching her.
I then had the courage to ask Henry the loaded question, but had to pause while he took a bite from his fried zucchini. He didn’t seem to be prepared for its degree of difficulty, as the piece of slimy vegetable slipped from its fried battered duvet. He bobbed his head as a gesture that he’d be able to attend to my incoming question once he took care of this renegade food.
Henry was completely irresistible. You couldn’t help but love him, no matter how small my ring or pathetic my proposal.
“So, Henry,” I started. “I was wondering if you were breast-fed.”
He dropped his fried zucchini.
“Emily! So I gather we’ve now moved from butts to breasts? Makes sense, I suppose.”
“Really, Henry. I’ve noticed you. How you have a tendency to stare at other women’s breasts. Blatantly.”
I then peered down to evaluate my own rack, which wasn’t all that bad, as well as rather buxom in proportion to my body. And it also would not receive a check in the “Real or Fake” game. Henry wasn’t losing out with my chest, though my wearing crew necks as opposed to more flattering cuts should be reconsidered if I wanted my fiancé’s eyes to stop scanning the globes.
He then took my hands and gave them a slight squeeze. Henry looked into my eyes with such sincerity, I saw the boy that made my insides swoop and swish like a fish riding in its tank in the back of a taxi.
“Emily, I love you. Are you even aware of how beautiful you are?”
Naturally, this would be a rhetorical question.
