A Girl And Her Platypus

I hate when men call me sweetie on the street. It’s happened twice this week. Last Saturday someone called me beautiful, which was a little better (if only because it didn’t force some weird sort of familiarity on me), but I don’t like that much either. 

I love when an old man looks at me and smiles like he’s remembering something nice. 

I have such incredible respect for people who manage to raise children in this city. I’ve watched them trudge onto the subway with a stroller in their hands and a sling across their chest. Little babies are hard enough, whining and grabbing and generally being fragile and upset on the ride. Once they’re old enough to stand, they have to be held tight so they don’t disappear or fall. Someone has to pay for an apartment big enough for all of them. Someone has to get them into the right preschool. Someone has to get them to bed at night with the sound of traffic streaming through the windows. 

“Isn’t it reassuring to have a job you like? Not that you have to do it forever, but isn’t it nice to know you can? It’s like getting your first boyfriend.”

I give her a look that reminds her what a terrible analogy she’s just made, and I slide out of the car. Her expression says that she’s debating which would be more awkward: Ignoring the gaff, or apologizing for it. 

All past bullshit aside, she’s right about the first part, so I make the decision for her. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” I say, leaning into the open car door, “There are things I’d rather do with my life, but I’d be happy with this if other stuff didn’t work out.”

Ultimately, I’m glad the analogy didn’t fit. Settling for second choice in the job department is sad enough. 

On Saturday June 25th, I sat down in a coffee shop and ended up next to an engaged couple. They were joking about their guest list, and how convoluted the whole thing had gotten in just a few hours since the proposal. It sounded like they were probably in a pretty big hurry. Maybe they’ll have one of the ceremonies on the day the law goes into effect. Will there even be a single hall left to rent? 

“Well,” The man in stripes said to the man in blue, “Now we know how hard it is to get married.” 

I started day dreaming into my latte, wondering what their story was. Had they been together for years, only holding out for the right to sign a piece of paper, or were they lovers who’d been inspired to take a big leap by the news of the day? Did they have a child together, at home with a grandparent while their daddy and papa enjoyed a coffee date, or would they live alone and spend their life together traveling to exotic places for Christmas? 

Whatever. Everyone was in love with that day. 

Three consecutive summers covered in paper cuts. I thought I’d found them all, but while we were drinking I spilled my tequila and it burned on all ten fingers. 

I know they’re supposed to hurt terribly (so many nociceptors, fucking little bugger shits), but I’ve become pretty used to them.  I notice them, sure, but I forget about them half a second later. The slow copier is more of a nuisance in the longterm. 

Have you ever had to print 300 double-sided, legal size press releases?

Minutes upon minutes. 

We walked back through Chelsea, and I was tipsier than she was. 

I found myself wondering if our conversation, loud and happy and mostly focusing on school (this year, next year, this school, that boy, life and all of its miserable mysteries) was making that man walking in front of us nostalgic, or just annoyed. 

I don’t often think of boys I used to be in love with, but sometimes it hits early in the morning and keeps up until I can’t sleep at night. 

I keep shuffling through songs, but every single note is a reminder of something I’m supposed to have forgotten. I get to the tenth straight disappointment before I’m clinging to the pole that I used to be holding gracefully with a few fingers. I let my face touch the metal a few songs later. Forehead first, just some extra support, then my cheek because my skin is hot and numb. 

I’m happy, yes? I was miserable. I didn’t love him, he didn’t love me, this is the stuff that’s supposed to be easy. Here’s a secret: Even if you never want to see someone again, there will be days when they’re the only thought in your head. 

I was in this surreal world that was just like the one I’d grown up in, but chic. Sitting at picnic tables while people play salsa music is nothing new to me, but here the guys were gay and fashionable instead of leering and smelly. My drink was pink and fizzy, gold at the bottom where the champagne had failed to mix with the fruity liquid, and fresh mint leaves floated on the top. Crackers passed by holding meat whipped into a mousse. I could never eat it. It might be fois gras, but anything in that consistency on a cracker is going to taste like cheese wiz to me. 

Besides, it sort of looks like shit. These are the kinds of observations we don’t make in polite society. 

I wasn’t going to give the guy any money. He wasn’t amazing, or anything. Besides, I’m on a tight budget these days. My purse was shoved down in the bottom of my backpack, anyway. 

The light turned red. 

Goddamn. 

I pulled my bag to the front of me and dug around blindly, messing up everything inside in the process. I finally got ahold of the single that I knew was floating around in there. I turned and threw it in the bucket, ready to bolt as soon as I saw it get there. 

“Thank you,”

And I had to smile. Who wouldn’t smile?

“I thought I saw you listening. You must play piano.”

My response was something fairly nonverbal, and utterly confused in nature. I do, after all, play piano, but he hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to examine my freakishly skinny fingers. 

“My joke is that I grew up in the ghetto. Couldn’t afford a piano, just a guitar.”

He waggled his eyebrows and played a little more, tapping out some Mozart. If I were in a crankier mood, I might have told him that I know very well that he’s using a common, if not standard, method of guitar playing. If I hadn’t been dumbed down by the heat and a long day at work, I would have at least said something nice about his guitar. It was nicely worn down, a Gibson, in my favorite color. Tobacco Sunburst. Nothing else looks half as good on a street corner, that’s for sure. 

“Here, let me give you a card.”

He wanted me to talk to him. He wasn’t predatory, wasn’t flirting (and thank god for that, he was a middle aged man with a ponytail), but I knew he wanted me to talk to him. I couldn’t push past my inherent shyness, so I just tucked the card away and turned to go. 

“You’ve got beautiful hair!” He called. He really didn’t have to do that, so I turned around and flashed him a smile that I absolutely meant before running across the street. 

When I was little, I used to think to myself that I had to get married right after college. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I was afraid of that deep silence that tells you you’re absolutely alone. I couldn’t sleep without my arms wrapped around something. 

I had the chance to never be alone again, but I gave it up in favor of being happy. Now nothing is for certain in that department. I don’t care as much as I thought I would. I actually sleep better on my own these days. 

What I didn’t realize all those years ago is that you can live in places where you’re never alone. I grew up in big houses, terrified at night, unable to sleep for all the silence. Now I have what I need. Footsteps. Laughter. The wet, viscous cough of the man next door. I don’t need someone next to me, just people around me.