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Authors: William J. Mann
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believe in it for me, anyway,” I explain. “If other guys can make open relationships work, then good for them. I just never could.”
And never would , I suddenly think, if it were me marrying Lloyd. If Lloyd was my lover, there’s no way I’d be bringing some twinkie in off the street for a quickie.
“Well, Henry, I’m glad to hear it,” Gale is saying. He stands up, carries his tray to the trash, and slides the remains of his lunch into the barrel. Then he turns and walks back over to me. He stands in front of the picnic table where I’m sitting. “In fact,” he says, “hearing that makes me want to ask you out to dinner. How about it?”
I stare up at him, momentarily unable to speak. “Yeah, sure,” I say finally.
“When?” Gale asks.
“Anytime,” I reply, still looking up into his big round brown eyes.
“Well, tomorrow’s no good,” Gale says.
“No?” I ask.
He grins knowingly. “You told the kid you were going out of town.”
I can’t resist smiling myself. “Well, I think my plans might change.”
Gale’s grin broadens. “When will you know for certain?”
“Right now.” I stand, realizing I’m a couple of heads taller than he is. But height hardly matters—not when I’m caught in the gaze of those soft brown eyes. “What time do you want to meet,” I ask, “and where?”
“How about seven-thirty at Café Heaven?”
“Good deal,” I say. We shake. Gale’s hand is small in my own, but his grip is firm and masculine.
“See you tomorrow night then,” he says, heading out.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow night,” I echo.
I watch him hop on his bike and ride away. Those amazing calves flex as he pumps the pedals, and his butt looks pretty damn good, too, as it lifts off the seat.
I carry my own tray to the trash. My eyes find those of the gull, who’s still sitting there staring at me.
“You can go now,” I whisper. “Everything’s done here.”
The bird spreads its wings and flaps away.
I smile to myself, and head home.
MY ROOM
W hen do we stop dreaming?
Do we still dream at sixty? At seventy? At eighty? Do we still hope to find what we haven’t yet found? Do we never give up?
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about Gale.
My future husband.
I laugh to myself and shift the pillows behind my head.
Outside, it’s started to rain. I can hear the steady tap-tap-tapping against the skylights. Inevitably my thoughts drift back to a year and a half ago. Few things in life were ever sweeter than falling asleep next to Joey on a rainy night. He’d always nod off before I did, breathing softly in my ear. I’d just lie there, inhaling the fragrance of his air, listening to the rain on the roof. Sometimes I’d hold off from falling asleep, just wanting to savor the moment, as if I knew it was too good to last.
Why does it always come back to Joey? Or Daniel? Or Lloyd? Why do I grieve my former lovers so, even after I make a date with a hot little jock? Why is being alone so goddamn hard ?
Two months after Joey dumped me, the phone rang, and somehow I knew it was him. “I’m leaving Provincetown,” he said to me. “I can’t seem to make it here.” He was moving to New York. Did I want to meet him for coffee before he left?
I felt the blood quicken in my veins. “Yes,” I said, hoping.
I cleaned my apartment, just in case. I told myself it was entirely possible that Joey might want to come back here. Maybe for one last quickie. Maybe after we fell into each other’s arms over coffee and decided how foolish we’d been to ever break up.
We met at a coffee joint in the West End. Joey was wearing clothes I didn’t remember. A yellow polo shirt, a pair of khakis I’d never seen, and red tennis shoes that clashed with his shirt. In two months, I wondered, had he bought a whole new wardrobe? Had he discarded everything that I had known, chucked every last bit of our life together?
We ordered our coffees.
And never would , I suddenly think, if it were me marrying Lloyd. If Lloyd was my lover, there’s no way I’d be bringing some twinkie in off the street for a quickie.
“Well, Henry, I’m glad to hear it,” Gale is saying. He stands up, carries his tray to the trash, and slides the remains of his lunch into the barrel. Then he turns and walks back over to me. He stands in front of the picnic table where I’m sitting. “In fact,” he says, “hearing that makes me want to ask you out to dinner. How about it?”
I stare up at him, momentarily unable to speak. “Yeah, sure,” I say finally.
“When?” Gale asks.
“Anytime,” I reply, still looking up into his big round brown eyes.
“Well, tomorrow’s no good,” Gale says.
“No?” I ask.
He grins knowingly. “You told the kid you were going out of town.”
I can’t resist smiling myself. “Well, I think my plans might change.”
Gale’s grin broadens. “When will you know for certain?”
“Right now.” I stand, realizing I’m a couple of heads taller than he is. But height hardly matters—not when I’m caught in the gaze of those soft brown eyes. “What time do you want to meet,” I ask, “and where?”
“How about seven-thirty at Café Heaven?”
“Good deal,” I say. We shake. Gale’s hand is small in my own, but his grip is firm and masculine.
“See you tomorrow night then,” he says, heading out.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow night,” I echo.
I watch him hop on his bike and ride away. Those amazing calves flex as he pumps the pedals, and his butt looks pretty damn good, too, as it lifts off the seat.
I carry my own tray to the trash. My eyes find those of the gull, who’s still sitting there staring at me.
“You can go now,” I whisper. “Everything’s done here.”
The bird spreads its wings and flaps away.
I smile to myself, and head home.
MY ROOM
W hen do we stop dreaming?
Do we still dream at sixty? At seventy? At eighty? Do we still hope to find what we haven’t yet found? Do we never give up?
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about Gale.
My future husband.
I laugh to myself and shift the pillows behind my head.
Outside, it’s started to rain. I can hear the steady tap-tap-tapping against the skylights. Inevitably my thoughts drift back to a year and a half ago. Few things in life were ever sweeter than falling asleep next to Joey on a rainy night. He’d always nod off before I did, breathing softly in my ear. I’d just lie there, inhaling the fragrance of his air, listening to the rain on the roof. Sometimes I’d hold off from falling asleep, just wanting to savor the moment, as if I knew it was too good to last.
Why does it always come back to Joey? Or Daniel? Or Lloyd? Why do I grieve my former lovers so, even after I make a date with a hot little jock? Why is being alone so goddamn hard ?
Two months after Joey dumped me, the phone rang, and somehow I knew it was him. “I’m leaving Provincetown,” he said to me. “I can’t seem to make it here.” He was moving to New York. Did I want to meet him for coffee before he left?
I felt the blood quicken in my veins. “Yes,” I said, hoping.
I cleaned my apartment, just in case. I told myself it was entirely possible that Joey might want to come back here. Maybe for one last quickie. Maybe after we fell into each other’s arms over coffee and decided how foolish we’d been to ever break up.
We met at a coffee joint in the West End. Joey was wearing clothes I didn’t remember. A yellow polo shirt, a pair of khakis I’d never seen, and red tennis shoes that clashed with his shirt. In two months, I wondered, had he bought a whole new wardrobe? Had he discarded everything that I had known, chucked every last bit of our life together?
We ordered our coffees.
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