furniture, photo albums, any
record of the past. He had moved into the new condo building across the street from
the pharmacy he owned, an apartment which he had signed a lease on two months before
he left her and had been quietly furnishing by making secret trips to the IKEA in
Schaumburg. Three times he had steered his cart through the crush of traffic in the
dizzyingly bright aisles, at first awkwardly, this new singular decision-making identity
unfamiliar. (His wife had made all household decisions since the day they’d married,
crushing him like a nut when he offered the slightest opinion—and had he really cared?
No, probably not, but he would never know now.) But with each successive trip, he
had a renewed confidence: The Swedish names were meant not to confuse but to guide;
he was not required to make a buying decision until nearly just before he reached
the cash register, and even then he had the power to walk out the door without a single
item in his cart; and maybe he did want a color scheme after all. Maybe he was a color-scheme
kind of guy.
And what a bargain that place was! Sure, it was a lot of crap he didn’t need, and
his father, who had owned a high-end furniture shop in Jackson Heights for decades,
would probably roll over, coughing, grumbling, cursing, in his grave if he saw what
Richard’s new bed frame was made of. But he was not a rich man—by some standards,
maybe, to starving children in India, he probably lived like a king—since the market
had wiped out half their retirement fund, so he had no choice in the matter.
Now he had a slickly furnished condo (white and dark blue with this little crisscross
patchy pattern on all his bedding and pillows) and his heart and his life up on a
screen for anyone to see. He exploited his newfound freedom at first, dating daily,
sometimes twice a day, meeting one woman for lunch and another for dinner. There were
thousands of women between the ages of forty and fifty-five (he didn’t want to date
a woman his own age, he wanted them young and vital and alive and ready to keep up
with him—with how he was imagining he was going to be—once they finally hit the sack
together) who were Jewish, divorced, widowed, never married, living within forty miles
of his zip code (anything farther and he’d be dating a Wisconsin girl, and that didn’t
feel right to him; he didn’t even know if there were Jews in Wisconsin anyway), though he was, if he had to be honest, more
attracted to people within a twenty-mile range, because traffic was such a mess these
days with so much construction going on. And all he had to do, apparently, was ask,
and they would be willing to meet him. There were a lot of lonely ladies out there
looking for love. Good , he thought, more for me .
He had dated fifteen divorcées, some more bitter than others, even more bitter than
his wife, but they were also the funniest out of all the women he met, their pain
somehow strengthening them, the endless paperwork and court proceedings and therapy
sessions forcing them to look inward and, if not good-naturedly then at least wryly,
laugh at themselves and the situation they were in. These women were veteran first-daters.
They were putting themselves out there. They were hustling to meet their new mate.
He dated a dozen widows, most of whom had sopped up their tragedies like their hearts
were sponges. They did not want to be on that date. They were there because someone
had made them, their child, their mother, their sister, their co-worker. If they had
their way they would stay home by themselves on a Friday night, but could they really
stay home on every Friday night for the rest of their lives? In their ads they promised
they were lively and active and engaged in the world around them, but in person they
were only able to fake it for a half hour or so before their devastation became apparent
to Middlestein. On
record of the past. He had moved into the new condo building across the street from
the pharmacy he owned, an apartment which he had signed a lease on two months before
he left her and had been quietly furnishing by making secret trips to the IKEA in
Schaumburg. Three times he had steered his cart through the crush of traffic in the
dizzyingly bright aisles, at first awkwardly, this new singular decision-making identity
unfamiliar. (His wife had made all household decisions since the day they’d married,
crushing him like a nut when he offered the slightest opinion—and had he really cared?
No, probably not, but he would never know now.) But with each successive trip, he
had a renewed confidence: The Swedish names were meant not to confuse but to guide;
he was not required to make a buying decision until nearly just before he reached
the cash register, and even then he had the power to walk out the door without a single
item in his cart; and maybe he did want a color scheme after all. Maybe he was a color-scheme
kind of guy.
And what a bargain that place was! Sure, it was a lot of crap he didn’t need, and
his father, who had owned a high-end furniture shop in Jackson Heights for decades,
would probably roll over, coughing, grumbling, cursing, in his grave if he saw what
Richard’s new bed frame was made of. But he was not a rich man—by some standards,
maybe, to starving children in India, he probably lived like a king—since the market
had wiped out half their retirement fund, so he had no choice in the matter.
Now he had a slickly furnished condo (white and dark blue with this little crisscross
patchy pattern on all his bedding and pillows) and his heart and his life up on a
screen for anyone to see. He exploited his newfound freedom at first, dating daily,
sometimes twice a day, meeting one woman for lunch and another for dinner. There were
thousands of women between the ages of forty and fifty-five (he didn’t want to date
a woman his own age, he wanted them young and vital and alive and ready to keep up
with him—with how he was imagining he was going to be—once they finally hit the sack
together) who were Jewish, divorced, widowed, never married, living within forty miles
of his zip code (anything farther and he’d be dating a Wisconsin girl, and that didn’t
feel right to him; he didn’t even know if there were Jews in Wisconsin anyway), though he was, if he had to be honest, more
attracted to people within a twenty-mile range, because traffic was such a mess these
days with so much construction going on. And all he had to do, apparently, was ask,
and they would be willing to meet him. There were a lot of lonely ladies out there
looking for love. Good , he thought, more for me .
He had dated fifteen divorcées, some more bitter than others, even more bitter than
his wife, but they were also the funniest out of all the women he met, their pain
somehow strengthening them, the endless paperwork and court proceedings and therapy
sessions forcing them to look inward and, if not good-naturedly then at least wryly,
laugh at themselves and the situation they were in. These women were veteran first-daters.
They were putting themselves out there. They were hustling to meet their new mate.
He dated a dozen widows, most of whom had sopped up their tragedies like their hearts
were sponges. They did not want to be on that date. They were there because someone
had made them, their child, their mother, their sister, their co-worker. If they had
their way they would stay home by themselves on a Friday night, but could they really
stay home on every Friday night for the rest of their lives? In their ads they promised
they were lively and active and engaged in the world around them, but in person they
were only able to fake it for a half hour or so before their devastation became apparent
to Middlestein. On
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