Standard Protocol

You were the woman standing naked in your bedroom, wet and dripping from the shower, ear pressed to your cell phone, thinking..."Is it somehow more demoralizing to be rejected when you are wet and naked and dripping on the floor?"

Aloud you said
"OK."  (PAUSE)
"I see."  (PAUSE).
"Well, thank you for letting me know."

All of these are acceptable answers: This was not a test result revealing that you had high triglycerides, nor was it the garage man telling you that nobody makes tires for a '93 Ford Ranger anymore.   You are approaching two years of sorrow, and this is standard protocol.

The Woman Watching a Storm

You were the woman watching a storm while Tom Waits courted you through the better part of a bottle of wine.  If you smoked, you would have done that too, but the last cigarette was over a year ago, and the one before that was with a brief and distant lover, a pattern you were comfortable maintaining.

Sitting in the hurricane dusk, unsure if you loved or endured these moments, you looked South out the Broadway windows at men with their futile umbrellas.  Leaning into the wind like you do your solitude --the silence of the ceiling fan, tires on rain, the leak behind the bedroom wall, you wished for an eventual destination.      

A Composed Woman Sinking.

You were the woman who's phone rang after 13 days of silence.  Your hands were wet from scrubbing the counter-top because that is what you do when you don't know what to do.  Two rings.  A calm hello.  And then the prepared understanding tone. "I am not hopeful," you say.  A composed woman sinking.  

Do you...Swim?

You were woman who waited.  Sad and European looking.  Stripped shirt, red lipstick, black everything else.  The bar was loud and crowded and a place you normally would not suggest for a date with a stranger, but I was well written and witty and requested something chic.  

I was the man who arrived in the Capitals jacket who shifted uncomfortably in my chair for forty five minutes, arranging and rearranging the items on the table so that they could be Perfectly.  Perfectly.  Perfectly straight.  And out of no less than 45 seconds of continuous silence, I would occasionally ask questions like "So, do you...swim?" and you would do nothing to better the situation answering, "Yes.  I am able to swim."

I was the man who, until tonight, made it through 32 years of my life without ever having eaten a sweet potato.  A feat you found unimaginable.  And you taunted me sweetly, but I was further unnerved and steeled my convictions to speak less, eat more, and never see you again.

Step in Cat Shit

You were the woman awake all night, pain shooting down the left side of your body: neck --> left shoulder --> elbow --> hip --> knee --> ankle.  Capitalizing on your sleepless worry, prodding you to stumble in the dark, eat ibuprofen for breakfast, to blindly step in cat shit.

Standing Over Your Kitchen Sink

Saw you around 8:00pm, frowning, standing over the sink in your immaculately clean one bedroom apartment.  Lipgloss, handcuff necklace, jeans; the perfect casual ________ for an evening out...but you are not out, you are standing over your sink, drinking dirty martinis, watching The Office, waiting for your phone to ring, making lists.

Tomorrow:
-Safeway (no peanut butter)
-Bake Bread
-Gym
-A prom for senior citizens

The Next Day:
-Biostats
-Gym
-Don't eat all the bread
    
The Day After That:
-Gym
-Cure common illness in children
-Try not to kill anyone in the process

Piadosisima Virgin Maria de Guadalupe...

You were the woman praying over lit candles in your apartment...forcing lips to say foreign words that once held no concept...pleading for the beneficence of intermediaries...of handicapped chanchitos...of Jesus statues, that maybe their exotic nature would bring you any small amount of luck.

Method Man

You sat in the Italian bakery: eyebrows raised, head tilted to one side, attempting to look interested while I discussed the intricacies of bridge maintenance and the Wesleyan Quadrilateral.  Your bra straps are revealed to me on one shoulder (which you are aware of); they are sleek and black and are making me uncomfortable (which you are also aware of).     

I was the man with a sweater over my dress shirt (because this morning I was late, and I didn't have time to iron).  I am 26, but remind you of your father.  I am the man who met you after work, chastised you for not wearing a helmet, and sent you home with almond cookies.

Shooting Chartreuse

You were the woman shooting Chartreuse at the Idle Hour last night.  Red lipstick, Carhartt jacket, long johns visible above your jeans...being cajoled into "one more" by myself and the sweet bartender, constantly (nervously) playing with your right earring.

I was the man from Maine who dismantled your bike and, in spite of your insistence that you were just fine, drove you home, and waited just long enough at your front door to make you think that I might like to kiss you.  

Prepare to be attacked.

You were the woman alone in a crowd at the Lithuanian Dance Hall, your favorite night of the month.  I watched you (tall, awkward) lean against the wall, while your friend (lost in the newness of love that you desperately seek) ignored you.  And realizing that your evening had reached its fullest potential you left without notice, walking down W. Lombard, $7 in your pants, $40 in your bra, keys hooked to belt-loops, preparing to be mugged.

Aspiring Chef?

You were the woman in the gold eyeshadow (which you wore for no good reason), sitting alone at The Waterfront Hotel, reading Bon Appetit.  You peered sadly into your Dewars and soda (you wanted it to be Makers and soda, but The Waterfront is going out of business, and you know this, and you don't want to be a bother), and you reminded yourself to breathe every few minutes. 

I was the man in the trenchcoat and hat, who sat down beside you and asked if you were a chef.

You replied, "No."

You bitch.

My New Year's Dream

New Year's Eve, 2010:

Saw you through your windows on Broadway, donned in matching bird pajamas.  Top: Little birds with winter hats on, with the tag line "Life is Tweet." Bottoms: A cascade of hats with similar birds using them for nests or perches.  Watched you drink the half bottle of wine (that you stingily transported from your parent's home) while watching 30 Rock.  You're right...you are Liz Lemon.  I want to congratulate you on not cutting your hair with craft scissors; that was a smart choice on your part.  Happy New Year.