two ice creams.
“Here you are Miss Fancy Pants
with your exotic crème brulee,” he says, handing me the cone when he comes back
over.
I nod at his white ice cream. “Are
you really having plain old vanilla again?”
“That I am.” He takes a bite. “Delicious!”
“I’m surprised you like vanilla so
much. It doesn’t seem like you at all.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you always like things
that are so complex.” And it’s true. For lack of a better word, Declan likes
the unfathomable. In art and music—even in his life at work. The more difficult
a problem is to solve, the more he seems to enjoy it. “You like abstract art, plus
all that bizarre sounding jazz music, and even the books you read. Those
complicated detective stories or those Gabriel Garcia Marquez novels, and now
you’re telling me that boring old vanilla is your favorite ice cream flavor? I don’t
believe it.”
Declan takes another bite of his gelato,
savoring it, as he appears to think over what I’ve said. “You’re forgetting something
though. Perhaps you’re not giving vanilla it’s proper due. Perhaps vanilla
isn’t boring at all, and is far more complex then you imagine.”
“ Perhaps ,” I say, imitating
his wonky tone of voice. “You’re full of it and vanilla is boring as hell, but you
like it anyway. Perhaps you’re not as complex as you seem.”
He laughs. “Perhaps, you’re
right.”
***
After we polish off our second
cones we head over to Jane Moon’s. I walk around her store admiring all the
gorgeous jewelry before I finally wind up in front of the glass case that holds
my necklace. I realize, with a sinking heart, that one of these days I’m going
to come in here and it will be gone. Someone will have purchased it. But I
don’t want to think about that day, so for now I’m going to remain in blissful
ignorance.
“Ah, there she is.” Declan comes
over and stands next to me. “Hello necklace,” he waves at it, “how have you
been? Probably missing your earring sisters I imagine. Your mummy here should
bring you home with her. I guess she doesn’t love you enough.”
I giggle, elbowing him in the
chest. “Shut-up!”
Declan laughs and rolls his eyes.
“You should buy the bloody thing! Don’t you have a credit card?”
“I can’t. It’s too expensive.”
“All right,” he says with a sigh.
“What time is it? We should go back. I’m supposed to meet with Greg and I still
have to pretend I’m interested in work.”
We head back to our building and
it’s turned into a really beautiful summer day. No more drizzly rain. The sun
feels warm against my face and arms. I glance over at Declan and when our eyes
meet we both grin.
When I get to my desk, I bring up
the current Java script I’ve been working on and think about how nice it would be
to spend more time doing creative stuff and less time programming. As I’m
sitting there my phone rings and I can see from the ID that it’s my mom.
“Hi Sweetheart,” she says. “I know
you’re busy at work, but I’ll be brief. I spoke to Lynn and Karma the other day
and they said they’d be happy to talk to you about their experience with using
a sperm donor. They have the cutest little girl named Maddie.”
I groan. “I really don’t want to
deal with this right now.”
“You’ll be thirty-five in only a few
more months. You can’t afford to wait. It might take a while for you to get
pregnant, so I wouldn’t keep putting it off.”
For many years my parents never
worried that I wasn’t married. They’re both what you’d call aging hippies and I
always attributed their mellowness to their overall liberalism in general. They
raised me to be independent and I’m grateful they did. My mom is a strong
feminist and definitely subscribes to the whole axiom of, “A woman needs a man
like a fish needs a bicycle.” She’s on the local board of Planned Parenthood
and is involved with NOW and NARAL and Take Back the
“Here you are Miss Fancy Pants
with your exotic crème brulee,” he says, handing me the cone when he comes back
over.
I nod at his white ice cream. “Are
you really having plain old vanilla again?”
“That I am.” He takes a bite. “Delicious!”
“I’m surprised you like vanilla so
much. It doesn’t seem like you at all.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you always like things
that are so complex.” And it’s true. For lack of a better word, Declan likes
the unfathomable. In art and music—even in his life at work. The more difficult
a problem is to solve, the more he seems to enjoy it. “You like abstract art, plus
all that bizarre sounding jazz music, and even the books you read. Those
complicated detective stories or those Gabriel Garcia Marquez novels, and now
you’re telling me that boring old vanilla is your favorite ice cream flavor? I don’t
believe it.”
Declan takes another bite of his gelato,
savoring it, as he appears to think over what I’ve said. “You’re forgetting something
though. Perhaps you’re not giving vanilla it’s proper due. Perhaps vanilla
isn’t boring at all, and is far more complex then you imagine.”
“ Perhaps ,” I say, imitating
his wonky tone of voice. “You’re full of it and vanilla is boring as hell, but you
like it anyway. Perhaps you’re not as complex as you seem.”
He laughs. “Perhaps, you’re
right.”
***
After we polish off our second
cones we head over to Jane Moon’s. I walk around her store admiring all the
gorgeous jewelry before I finally wind up in front of the glass case that holds
my necklace. I realize, with a sinking heart, that one of these days I’m going
to come in here and it will be gone. Someone will have purchased it. But I
don’t want to think about that day, so for now I’m going to remain in blissful
ignorance.
“Ah, there she is.” Declan comes
over and stands next to me. “Hello necklace,” he waves at it, “how have you
been? Probably missing your earring sisters I imagine. Your mummy here should
bring you home with her. I guess she doesn’t love you enough.”
I giggle, elbowing him in the
chest. “Shut-up!”
Declan laughs and rolls his eyes.
“You should buy the bloody thing! Don’t you have a credit card?”
“I can’t. It’s too expensive.”
“All right,” he says with a sigh.
“What time is it? We should go back. I’m supposed to meet with Greg and I still
have to pretend I’m interested in work.”
We head back to our building and
it’s turned into a really beautiful summer day. No more drizzly rain. The sun
feels warm against my face and arms. I glance over at Declan and when our eyes
meet we both grin.
When I get to my desk, I bring up
the current Java script I’ve been working on and think about how nice it would be
to spend more time doing creative stuff and less time programming. As I’m
sitting there my phone rings and I can see from the ID that it’s my mom.
“Hi Sweetheart,” she says. “I know
you’re busy at work, but I’ll be brief. I spoke to Lynn and Karma the other day
and they said they’d be happy to talk to you about their experience with using
a sperm donor. They have the cutest little girl named Maddie.”
I groan. “I really don’t want to
deal with this right now.”
“You’ll be thirty-five in only a few
more months. You can’t afford to wait. It might take a while for you to get
pregnant, so I wouldn’t keep putting it off.”
For many years my parents never
worried that I wasn’t married. They’re both what you’d call aging hippies and I
always attributed their mellowness to their overall liberalism in general. They
raised me to be independent and I’m grateful they did. My mom is a strong
feminist and definitely subscribes to the whole axiom of, “A woman needs a man
like a fish needs a bicycle.” She’s on the local board of Planned Parenthood
and is involved with NOW and NARAL and Take Back the
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