Read Online The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel by Laurie Graff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Graff
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is Not. And I betcha anything Not’ll be enough.”
Suddenly I miss being Jewish. Although I’m not quite sure what I’m missing because nothing has been taken from me. Well, perhaps a little of my humor . . . some of my disclosure . . . parts of my vocabulary . . . and a lot of my Jewish know-it-all because now I don’t. But I am enjoying Josh and love feeling like a sweet, adorable, pampered girl.
Krista and Matt catch a cab downtown while Josh and I walk for a bit. The chill in the air feels refreshing. Josh holds my hand and leads me to Fifth Avenue. We stroll uptown passing fancy storefronts displaying shoes, dresses, jewelry, and leather. Each one outdoes the next with its high-end wares.
The city is such a fantastic backdrop. Whatever’s going on in your life, it feels as if with the proper underscoring you could be playing a scene, the star of your movie. If ever I felt that way, it’s more so now.
“You’re a quiet girl,” says Josh, breaking the silence.
“Oh?”
The bathroom chat with Krista replays in my mind and creates two new tapes. Telling and Not Telling. Mentally, I try to play each one out. I don’t see why I need to spill the beans just yet. I mean
—quiet girl!??!
Uh-oh. No one’s ever accused me of that before. But it’s easier and less dangerous, so I stay that way.
“I have to say I was a little alarmed when Matt said he saw you on JDate,” says Josh when I don’t respond. “I know you two are friends and that’s how he met Krista. But I also know what he meant.”
Be brave, I think. “And why would that be alarming?” I ask because I need to find out.
“Because with you I feel like I’m finally dating the right kind of woman. I mean, man . . . I know JDate well. I’ve been through . . . don’t ask because I won’t tell.”
“Okay,” I say, aware Josh has not answered my question. “But let’s say Matt was right.”
“But he’s not,” Josh says, and pushes me up against the storefront window of Bergdorf Goodman. It’s late. The street is empty. The glimmer of a new moon shines above.
“But what if—”
“Ssssshhh,” he says, and presses his finger to my lips. “I was just thinking out loud. You don’t have to be alarmed about anything, Aimee.” He pronounces it “eMay,” the French way. It sounds exotic. It makes me feel new.
It is still winter, but the mannequins behind us are decked out for spring. Tote bags, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and colorful cinch belts accessorize white-cuffed button-down shirts and capri pants, pleated floral skirts, and patent leather sandals. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can look like a woman in the Bergdorf window. I want to move in. I want to be there. With Josh by my side, I feel I can go places. And oh, I so want to travel. I want to fly.
Josh holds me and is very gentle. I am a China doll that can easily break. He moves his full mouth over mine; his lips touch, circling above and below, over my lips. An interlude. The pause before the surrender. To a kiss. The first kiss. It is lovely. And I hope the first of many.
Closer, we continue uptown. His arm around me, he tucks me into his frame and we walk. We walk past Bergdorf’s, past the Plaza Hotel, past the gold-leaf statue at the beginning of Central Park. Along the cobblestones we go. Past green-painted benches and the entrance that takes you to the zoo. I know exactly where we are, but I feel transported. Not just from New York. From Sam. Peter. From Aimee to eMay. When Josh hails a cab and holds open the door, it is eMay who hops in. We ride through the streets of Paris, and all the world is gay.
Until we reach my building on Second Avenue.
The doorman glances through the wide glass window to see who I’m with. Tova Steinman, my neighbor in 15F, is back from a late supper after the Philharmonic. She exits her cab in the circular driveway seconds after we step out of ours.
“Good evening, Aimala.”
A shopping bag, undoubtedly
Suddenly I miss being Jewish. Although I’m not quite sure what I’m missing because nothing has been taken from me. Well, perhaps a little of my humor . . . some of my disclosure . . . parts of my vocabulary . . . and a lot of my Jewish know-it-all because now I don’t. But I am enjoying Josh and love feeling like a sweet, adorable, pampered girl.
Krista and Matt catch a cab downtown while Josh and I walk for a bit. The chill in the air feels refreshing. Josh holds my hand and leads me to Fifth Avenue. We stroll uptown passing fancy storefronts displaying shoes, dresses, jewelry, and leather. Each one outdoes the next with its high-end wares.
The city is such a fantastic backdrop. Whatever’s going on in your life, it feels as if with the proper underscoring you could be playing a scene, the star of your movie. If ever I felt that way, it’s more so now.
“You’re a quiet girl,” says Josh, breaking the silence.
“Oh?”
The bathroom chat with Krista replays in my mind and creates two new tapes. Telling and Not Telling. Mentally, I try to play each one out. I don’t see why I need to spill the beans just yet. I mean
—quiet girl!??!
Uh-oh. No one’s ever accused me of that before. But it’s easier and less dangerous, so I stay that way.
“I have to say I was a little alarmed when Matt said he saw you on JDate,” says Josh when I don’t respond. “I know you two are friends and that’s how he met Krista. But I also know what he meant.”
Be brave, I think. “And why would that be alarming?” I ask because I need to find out.
“Because with you I feel like I’m finally dating the right kind of woman. I mean, man . . . I know JDate well. I’ve been through . . . don’t ask because I won’t tell.”
“Okay,” I say, aware Josh has not answered my question. “But let’s say Matt was right.”
“But he’s not,” Josh says, and pushes me up against the storefront window of Bergdorf Goodman. It’s late. The street is empty. The glimmer of a new moon shines above.
“But what if—”
“Ssssshhh,” he says, and presses his finger to my lips. “I was just thinking out loud. You don’t have to be alarmed about anything, Aimee.” He pronounces it “eMay,” the French way. It sounds exotic. It makes me feel new.
It is still winter, but the mannequins behind us are decked out for spring. Tote bags, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and colorful cinch belts accessorize white-cuffed button-down shirts and capri pants, pleated floral skirts, and patent leather sandals. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can look like a woman in the Bergdorf window. I want to move in. I want to be there. With Josh by my side, I feel I can go places. And oh, I so want to travel. I want to fly.
Josh holds me and is very gentle. I am a China doll that can easily break. He moves his full mouth over mine; his lips touch, circling above and below, over my lips. An interlude. The pause before the surrender. To a kiss. The first kiss. It is lovely. And I hope the first of many.
Closer, we continue uptown. His arm around me, he tucks me into his frame and we walk. We walk past Bergdorf’s, past the Plaza Hotel, past the gold-leaf statue at the beginning of Central Park. Along the cobblestones we go. Past green-painted benches and the entrance that takes you to the zoo. I know exactly where we are, but I feel transported. Not just from New York. From Sam. Peter. From Aimee to eMay. When Josh hails a cab and holds open the door, it is eMay who hops in. We ride through the streets of Paris, and all the world is gay.
Until we reach my building on Second Avenue.
The doorman glances through the wide glass window to see who I’m with. Tova Steinman, my neighbor in 15F, is back from a late supper after the Philharmonic. She exits her cab in the circular driveway seconds after we step out of ours.
“Good evening, Aimala.”
A shopping bag, undoubtedly
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