i probably shouldn't

I want to text Gyan. But I’m pretty sure it’s not ok to send a text saying, “Do you want to make out? I do.”

~beatrix

sandeep

He touches my upper arm when he laughs. And he leans forward and touches my forearm when he can’t hear something I’ve said.

We are sitting across from one another at a tall bar table. He runs a finger along my jaw line. His hands are really soft.

I think I know where this is going.

And suddenly, he’s kissing me. Is he really out of his chair? How did this happen?


~beatrix

drinking and dating

I keep hoping he just won’t call. I can’t believe I’m already having dating burnout, but I just really really want to put on my pyjamas and stay home.

My phone rings as I’m unlocking the door to my apartment. Of course.

I don’t change clothes. Instead of doing something to my hair, I just re-ponytail it. I make sure I don’t have smudges under my eyes and put on some lip gloss. Done. That’s all I care.

He wants to get coffee, and we end up at a Starbucks. Lame.

I hate dating because I’m so tired of drinking things. In my non-dating life, almost all I ever drink is water. Would it be rude to order water on a date? I can’t do coffee. I grab a bottle of some juice blend. He orders a something-iato something-accino something something Starbucks concoction. With whipped cream. Super lame.

Add to the ever-growing list: I want to date a boy who drinks his coffee like a man.

I should have just gotten some water. I pay because I have a gift card. Super-duper lame.

“I guess I’ll get the first round later.”

Does he really expect me to go somewhere else and drink more things? Not gonna happen.

There’s nowhere to sit, so we go sit in a park. It’s cold. I hate this juice. I hate dating. This is going poorly, and it’s my fault.

We walk around a little. He should have had a plan.

I just want to go home.

I say I don’t feel good. It’s sort of true. I mostly just want to go home. And I really was sick earlier in the week.

We part ways. I go to the grocery store, then home to cook dinner for myself.

It is delicious.

~beatrix

good luck

I meet up with this pediatrician from Brooklyn at noon. We meet in Union Square. I think I’m getting better at recognizing these boys from their pictures, but maybe I’ve just learned to recognize the look people have about them when they are waiting for someone they don’t know.

He’s a little awkward, a little shy.

He has a plan to go to some coffee shop, but it’s closed, maybe closed forever. We go to a different one. I’m not supposed to be drinking coffee, but I order a café au lait anyway. I figure there’s calcium in milk so it’s good for me. He doesn’t like coffee at all, so he orders hot chocolate. I’m not sure why we are here.

We talk. Mostly I talk. It’s like he’s never done this before.

“So. . . what do you do on the weekends?”

I think it’s the third time he’s asked me this.

And I’m hungry. He says he thought the other place, the closed place, would have food.

We walk back to Union Square. He says he needs to buy new shoes.

I wish him good luck.

~beatrix

just saturday

I had things to do when I left Gyan’s Saturday morning, but not urgent things.

So while I’m lounging around in bed, I get a message from Christophe:

“Hi, Beatrix. Can we talk? I don't want you to be upset with me. I'm sorry.”

In a way I’m flattered that he thinks I’m such a prude that I’d be offended by his grampa cheek-kiss. I wonder what he’d think of me if he had any idea what happened last night at Gyan’s.

And then I feel terribly guilty. Cooper reassured me that it was better to just let him think it was the kiss, to let him have a reason so he could just move on. But I don’t want to scar the boy into never kissing a girl on the cheek again.

I don’t know what to do, but I do what I always do when things are hard: think about something else. I meet up with my boss, run an errand at the Plaza, talk to a boy and set up a date for Sunday, and go to Barnes and Noble to sit on the floor with Pete.

Pete would be a recurring peripheral character on the Harper and Beatrix Show. As I’m having trouble with a desperate and needy boy, Pete’s being one. I read a few million lines of a chat he had with some girls he’s crazy over and try to tell him gently that he needs to calm down a little and not scare the girl away.

He knows, though, and the conversation turns to more Overheard-in-New-York-worthy topics. Pete once slept with a girl on a first date after they played hangman. And, unsolicited, he’s trying to help his pretty friend make extra money by hiring her out as a wingwoman. His Craigslist ad is brilliant, and has already gotten two responses. I’m laughing so hard, I seriously hope other people are enjoying this conversation.

“You want cookies?” he asks me.

We have some pre-dessert dumplings, then head to Milk Bar. I’m not feeling great, so he won’t let me touch the cookies we get. Instead he breaks them all and gives me halves.

“You realize the kind of relationship it looks like we have, don’t you?”

Before I go in the subway, he asks me when my next date is.

“Tomorrow at 12. No plan-- I’m just supposed to meet him in Union Square. The real question is should I go hungry or full?”

He assures me that there will be food since the date is at prime brunch time, but advises me to eat something small (he suggests a yogurt) before I go.

~beatrix

maybe

I tilt my head, “That’s never going to work.”
He furrows his brow, “Yes, it will.”

He says it like a spoiled child, used to getting whatever he wants.

But he’s right. It works. He takes my bra off over my head, no fussing with clasps.

I was ready to walk out the door. Maybe it was the bottle of sake, maybe it’s the way he effortlessly helps me on with my coat, or the way he took my hand in the cab on the way to his place. Maybe it’s his accent. Maybe it’s the way his stern seriousness crumbles and he erupts into absolute giggles or the way he kisses me in public without it being awkward at all.

Maybe it’s the way he gestures and says, “That’s my plant.” And it really is quite a plant.

But I kissed him a little more, and end up being carried to his bed, with my coat, scarf, bag, shirt, gloves, and bra in a pile by his front door.

Maybe I just like him.

I wake up before he does. I have things to do. He admits he’s hungover and lies in bed watching me get dressed.

“You’re cute,” he says, seriously.

I’m on the train by 10:30.


~beatrix

a pregnant pause

Is it just my facebook friends? Or have yours been popping up with profile pics of themselves holding pregnancy tests?

I’m thrilled for you, really. I’m glad you’re having that baby. I will make him a hat.

But did you forget that you just PEED ON THAT??


~trix

the alley rule

I have a lot of rules.

I don’t date military guys. I don’t date clarinet players. I only date guys between the ages of 26 and 38. Et Cetera, Ad Infinitum.

So I think I’m going to implement a new rule:

If I don’t want to take a guy into an alley and make out with him by the time our second date is winding down, no third date.

(This does not mean there will be alley makeouts, just that I would want there to be. And I’m not sure I’ve ever made out in an alley before, even though I did make out with Tal on 83rd street once for, like, an hour.)

That’s the new rule.



******



I was seriously busy. I think I was taking a shower, then I called my mom. And maybe I needed to dry my hair. And my internet connection went all spazzy.

But Christophe sent me a message:
“hey what's going on?
I'm sorry if it was the kiss.
I thought it would have been nice to do.”

I didn’t ignore him. . . on purpose. But I ignored him.



~beatrix

prioritizing

By 11:30 the next morning, Christophe texts me to say he had a great time and to see if I want to have brunch on Saturday.

I am very busy working. I forget about it, because that is what happens when you don’t want to deal with something.

And it’s a good thing I saved Friday, because I’m seeing Gyan.

~beatrix

A case of the Mondays, updated

I never know what to expect on a Monday. Sometimes, you wake up to a street strewn with bagels. I'm not sure what that means for the rest of the week.

Update: I got home from work and the bagels were all gone. Beatrix thinks birds ate them.

Giant jewish birds.

(And yes, they were sesame.)