mirrors like a vampire. People would categorize me as being pretty, as easy-to-look-at in that catalogue model kind of way, whereas I’ve always been more interested in being considered a natural to appear in Italian Vogue.
Henry was still speaking. I believe I even missed a few of his adulations.
“I don’t know anyone as beautiful, passionate, talented, creative, funny, and smart as you.”
Well, that was a start.
“And, no, I wasn’t breast-fed.”
“You weren’t!”
“It was the late sixties. My mom was into that feminist thing at the time.”
He then looked at my breasts and I, too, gave them a closer inspection.
“I’ll just have to make up for that lack of breast-feeding tonight.”
Leaving the restaurant, Henry reached into his pocket for his Tic Tacs. Spilling the last four into his palm, he looked momentarily stumped, possibly because they appeared so enormous in comparison to that diamond he recently had been inspecting.
I fingered two of the sea mist green pellets before he’d realized that those missing mints were lost from my habit of munching on them lately.
We both tilted our heads to the sky so they were perfectly positioned to sip in the air. It felt warm for March. If it were a more seasonable month, we probably would have cabbed it as it was still too cool to walk, but considering the unexpected temperature we decided to take advantage of the time outdoors.
I had an ugly engagement ring.
Arriving home exhausted, Henry went right to bed. So much for his urge to breast-feed. Completely awake with my eyes closed, I could have either spent the rest of the night in this state of wakefulness or used the alert time to do something more productive. Getting out of bed, I slipped on a pair of sweats that said “Kick Ass” on the rear. Moving to the couch, I kept staring at my newly ringed finger, pinching the tiny diamond. There was something unique and quaint about it. Perhaps I would grow into it—meaning grow to love it, not become obese and thick-fingered—the ring was getting resized the day after tomorrow, as that was the next Wedding Planning Day.
Turning on the light, I gazed about the apartment, which was all about Henry’s stereo equipment. His speakers were worth more than my entire savings. I imagined that Henry pictured these speakers, hearing the concert hall sounds that pounded from their black cushioned padding, right as we entered the main room of the Reade Street loft.
Shifting my gaze to the floors, there appeared to be a layer of that cottony New York City dust. This town was absolutely filthy. I went into the kitchen to get a dishcloth, making a mental note to find a more effective dust cleaning method and log on to Restoration Hardware. Returning to the room, I knelt down and began swiping the floors. Crawling to the edge of the couch, I flickered the towel in lightning motions under the lining in an attempt to capture the dust beneath. Allergy season approached and I needed to remove unhealthy trappings.
Feeling a light kick on my butt, annoyed, I tilted my head to find Henry wearing that annoying smirk of his.
“I am just doing what I’m told,” he laughed, keying me in to my “Kick Ass” pants by pointing to my butt. “And you do have a kick-ass ass. Though I may be more turned on if you substitute the dishtowel for a whip and swap the adorable yet unflattering sweats for those panties of yours with the purple fur trim.”
I rewound my mind to a few years back. To a time when I used my obsessive-compulsive cleaning of places unseen to the eye but seen in my head with High Definition accuracy. When I Windexed and dusted out of angst about my single status. Telling myself that when I was in a relationship, I wouldn’t squander it on frivolous arguments and unnecessary drama. Now experiencing the very moment I’ve always dreamed of.
6
New Yorkers must travel for the privilege of soaking their bare feet in morning grass. They cannot detect the weather by opening a window when opposing buildings manipulate the natural light and air—more privileges. With their need for convenience and fix for all things cutting edge, urbanites are considered the most modern of earth dwellers.
New Yorkers do not own toolboxes, unless used to store cotton balls and eyelash curlers. They have numbers for maintenance people who drive vans with company names painted on the doors. I will avoid modern conveniences in the same way that I am suspicious of the talents of a screenwriter who writes his work on an iBook at a Starbucks.
With my oversized ring with its undersized diamond, the toolbox became my brand of convenience, preventing me from having to travel to a jeweler, as it contained duct tape. Use #127 to pad rings the size of a baby’s bracelet.
My day was already under siege by the rumblings of a possible Bridezilla attack, a day strictly devoted to my career. I would not even glance at a bridal magazine. I would make a trip to the Met to be inspired. Even though I would be in the general vicinity of Vera Wang, I would not go in. Just, perhaps, walk past it.
I dressed in haste, forewent my walk to take a cab, and justified the saved time for a quick peruse in Vera Wang. I froze outside the boutique, watching the stick figures in their new season’s purchases, fantasy brides that had the kind of unattainable qualities I put to paper, as they shushed in and out of the glass entrance, looking more like a casting call for a Jackie O biopic. Did I have the right place? Was this one of those excursions that you needed to dress for? Vera Wang was painted in gold on the window; the doors were trimmed in coordinating 24-karat. This was the place where girls were made into princesses.
And here I stood outside Vera Wang in my Pumas and cargo pants. I imagined trying to enter the doors only to be rejected and spit out in the same nifty effect as a children’s book with spells and witches, where inanimate objects took on nasty human characteristics, the Vera Wang door taking the form of a very belligerent bouncer.
And my Pumas? Since Mom did say that I couldn’t possibly go to the museum dressed in sneakers, never one to rebel against dress codes, I walked north a few blocks to Theory and bought a fitted jean jacket. At Searle, I found a pair of white low-cut denim pants, feeling very Back to School circa 1985 by asking the salesgirl if I could wear my purchase out of the store. She gave a haughty giggle and then a once-over, showing the fangs of a slobbering jackal as if I had never bought clothes before, a small-town girl new to the city and completely overcome by my first New York shopping experience.
Surveying the store one last time to see if I had missed any merchandise, I found a selection of Pumas in the far corner under a row of headless mannequins. Securing a salesperson that didn’t appear to have vampire marks on the side of her neck, I added a pair of navy Pumas with a turquoise stripe to the mix, quickly changing into them a few blocks away from the store in a courtyard of a private townhouse.
And, in case I thought I wasn’t paying attention to the mission of this small spree, I was in complete control. I couldn’t possibly justify spending money on a new pair of throwaway shoes just to go to the museum, considering that there were no quality shoe stores in the area. And, since I had to stick to a budget so I could move into the Reade Street loft, I needed to economize. A new pair of Pumas bought just for an outing to the Met had been a perfectly justifiable expense.
I started my museum visit by showing support to the Met’s curators in viewing the current DaVinci exhibition that focused on his journals. Leo and I had a great deal in common, as I am also an avid journal keeper. Perhaps
