important, late-night news

2:30 a.m.

Late night text, turned phone call.

“Well, I kissed him.”
“Ooooof course you did.”
“In that thing. Where you go into the subway. That thing in the median.”
“Not a bodega. . . .”
“No, you know. Like a greenhouse. And people were watching us, and, like, talking about it.”
“What’s that word?”
“I don’t know. It’s like a gazebo. Gazebo!”
“Yes! Gazebo.”




~beatrix

i can be alone

Trix: I need a LOT of attention.
Sam: I realized last night that I just. . . don’t. I like to be alone.
Trix: Oh, I can be alone. As long as I know that other people WISH they were with me.

~beatrix

simon texts that he's in town and for about ten hours everything is perfect, and. . .

It’s the little things, too. The whispers. The way his skin is the softest, smoothest I’ve ever felt. The way he remembers which Kate is getting married in May in Rhode Island and which Kate is getting married in June in New Orleans.

“That’s impressive.”
“That I listen to what you say?”

Well, yes. Quite.

The cuddling and the sleeping and the lying absolutely on top of his chest and never ever feeling like I’m crushing him.

“I want you to stay.”
“I wish I could stay.”

The goodbye kisses. In the grey early morning, just one more. One more.

One more goodbye.


~beatrix

debriefing

If you want to be my boyfriend, there are a few things you should probably know. Like I will flip out if you touch the bottoms of your shoes. For most of my teenage years I’d listen to Sheryl Crow’s “Strong Enough” on repeat whenever I was lonely or sad about a boy, and I still think it’s possibly the best relationship advice a boy can find. I will say, “Look, I made you a present,” and I’ll give you a picture I drew of something like a cupcake in a mirage with tumbleweeds blowing by on what is essentially a piece of trash, but you should pretend you like it. Sometimes I’ll break down on Friday nights for no reason.

And sometimes, panicked, I’ll ask you,

“Is tomorrow Thursday?”

I might even wake you up to ask you.

And you’ll say,

“Well, yesterday was Tuesday, and today is Wednesday. So, yes, that means tomorrow should be Thursday.”

Because you are patient. And all-around lovely.

You won’t ask questions. And it wouldn’t matter because I’ll already be asleep. So you’ll just hold me for a little, thinking about how lucky you are.


~beatrix

recognition

Wendy from Wendy’s Adventures in LaLaLand chose me for one of these things where you answer a bunch of questions about yourself. Wendy’s great-- charming and interesting and rather clever. If you don’t know her already, I’m happy to introduce you.

But even though I am physically unable to climb the fence at Union Square Park to lounge on the grass four days before it opens officially (even though quite a number of other people have done it), we all know I am, at heart, a rule breaker. And even though my seventh grade geography/world history teacher praised my brilliant succinctness, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I can write sort of a lot about nothing. So, I’ve elected to answer only one question from the list, though I encourage you to answer all the questions. There. Tag, or whatever.


I have some really great jewelry: Some diamonds from special occasions like my 21st birthday and college graduation. The usual pearls. A circle pin of my great-grandmother’s that looks good in my hair. A charm bracelet with about 25 interesting charms. An enormous cocktail ring, swiped from my mom’s jewelry box, with a stone the color of Windex. A small collection of carved cinnabar bracelets.

But there’s one piece I truly love.

I was out for a walk in my new neighborhood. I’d just moved to New York. I don’t know when it was, but I’d moved in the summer, and it was still hot. Very hot. And I was still basking in the freedom of anonymity and. . . aloneness. I was happy. It had been a while.

I don’t remember what street it was on, but there was this sort-of sidewalk fair. It was more flea market than anything else, with a whole table full of huge, vintage clip-on earrings. They are just so fabulous. And shiny. They make me feel glamorous, even though I never know where or when I can wear them, and if I ever do, I wonder why I’m so crabby and have such a dull headache before I remember I have something like 500 pounds of pressure per square inch on each of my earlobes*. So I mostly end up wearing them around my house when I need to feel pretty.

I bought some. It was a four-dollar splurge: one ridiculous pair of green rhinestone flowers. But then I saw it.

It was sweet, etched with some flourishes and flowers. A locket, gold, a little bigger than a nickel. I saw it and I loved it and it was mine. I recognized it like the baby Dalai Lama must recognize his stuff.

When I picked it up for a closer look, I saw that it had originally been colored. The green of the flourishes had mostly rubbed off, and the flowers had been pink. But I knew it really was mine. The monogram in the center? It was my letter.

The lady on the other side of the table apologized that it cost more than everything else. It was older, she said. I had just moved and started school and spent all of my savings. I should have used the money for food, but I didn’t.

It cost twelve dollars or sixteen dollars, and felt altogether irresponsible. But it was mine. This locket is a time, a place, and a philosophy.

You chose the life you live mostly, but sometimes your life just chooses you. Luck and fate and chance and destiny-- I don’t know what to believe, but I have to believe something. People wander through, but sometimes someone shows up, and you know that they’re meant to stay. I have to believe that I can recognize my people. That some day I’ll recognize my place. My person.

I have to believe that life will give me the things I need and that all I’ll have to do is recognize them when they show up.


*I made this up. But it does hurt.

~beatrix

rule-breaking is practically my number one hobby

I was still not sure why I decided to meet him.

I was exhausted for no reason. My eyes were red. One of them was swollen a little more than the other. My sinuses were telling me it was springtime, but the temperature was telling me not quite. I didn’t bring a coat. That was stupid.

Even my hair looked tired.

Good sandwich, though. And not bad company.

~beatrix

perhaps i should go home now

I was watching The Food Network and trying to fill Sandeep in on the plots. But when the guy with the spiky blonde hair came on, I changed the channel.

“What is this?” he asked me.

“Mary Poppins!”

It’s not how I should be spending Easter morning.

I’m sprawled out on his couch, and he looks away from his laptop, down at me.

“Do you want to go to the beach some time next month?”

Definitely not how I should be spending it.


~beatrix

Boost your dignity

I love how Gmail filters spam out of my inbox, but sometimes that means that you miss out on some promising e-mails. For example, I just got this intriguing offer:

Subject line: Boost your dignity!

Wow, a magical product could boost my dignity... Was it some sort of pill that would paralyze my hands if I attempted to call my ex-boyfriend after too many drinks? Or maybe it's a fabric treatment that would ensure that my skirt would not blow up over my head as I walked down the street?

Maybe it could have prevented the unfortunate Dove deodorant incident.



No, they were just selling discount Viagra.

-Harper

i used to think so

I don’t remember why he asked.

I was putting on my coat, and he was sitting at the table, writing a check. He addressed the envelope. I’d never seen his handwriting before: small and slanted all ways and like. . . like a boy.



I’d been watching Friday t.v. garbage downstairs while he was supposed to be packing upstairs.

“Have I ever shown you this?”

I look up, and, somber-faced, he’s making a little teddy bear goose-step along the banister overlooking the dining room.

“ I’ve had him since I was in first grade.“ Even from a distance, it’s clear the little guy’s been loved. “I had to retrieve him from my parents’ house.” And he disappears back to packing.

While Pete’s packing his toiletries, I call to him, “What’s that little bear’s name?”

“I’m not telling you.”

But after a few minutes of guesses and promises and hints and bartering, with an almost-embarrassed half-smile, he does.

And it’s adorable.

The heat’s too much downstairs, so we move upstairs. Pete’s sprawled on the sofa, all hands and feet and elbows, and I’m sharing a rocking chair with the little bear.

I thought it was all over, but I want to be closer to Pete. I try to ignore it.

It’s getting late; he has an early flight. He plays one more made-up ukulele song, and I assure him that this is really the way he’s going to get all the girls. I put on my coat, and he sits down to write a check.

Without looking up, he asks me if I want to have babies.

“I. . . I don’t know,” is the best I’ve got at first. It’s such a hard question.

I want all the things that make you think it’s a good idea. You know, things like bedrooms and health insurance.

“We were talking about it at work one day,” I tell him, “and I told them I’d never be one of those women who has a baby alone.”

And that, of course-- a boy who makes me think I could do it. Should do it.

“Do you? You do, right?”

“I don’t know,” he says, still writing. “I used to think so. But now I don’t know. I need to figure it out. I need to figure out my whole life.” Then, “I meet a lot of women here who I don’t think would make good mothers.”

“I’m no good at kids until they can, like, stand up,” I say.

It’s hot, wearing my coat.

“Would you want to be with a girl you didn’t want to have kids with?”

“I’ve thought about it. Yeah.”

And it makes me sad to think of him settling. Of anyone settling, really. Because if it’s gonna happen eventually, maybe I should go ahead and let it happen now. Save myself some trouble.



~beatrix

it's always good to have a plan

We’re sitting beside each other, sipping smoothies.

“I’m going to show her,” he tells me. “She keeps making excuses, but I’m going to call her bluff. I’m going to keep asking her out, and then, if she says yes, I’m going to say no.”

“Very mature.” I tell him, and take another sip. “And anyway, if she said yes, you’d go out with her.”

His laugh is a single note. Because it’s true.



~beatrix