Read Online Weekends at Bellevue by Julie Holland - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Holland
Ads: Link
car at the corner of White and Church, in front of the Baby Doll lounge. White and Church. Signs and omens. I wondered if I’d meet someone at the party, someone I would marry.
I walked from the corner to 395 Broadway, watching the litter swirl in the wind. I opened the door to the apartment. Cue the romantic music. Across a room filled with two dozen people, I saw a man who had seen me. I stared at him, thinking to myself, There he is, that’s my guy: long, brown curly hair, beautiful blue-green eyes, full, sexy lips, strong chin. I had a strange feeling that he was The One I was supposed to be with. It felt preordained, inevitable; my only job was to accept it. It was irrational, but I was sure of it. The very definition of delusional.
I got up the courage to say something as I passed him on the way to the bathroom.
“Hi!” I said, in a tone that implied an old friendship, as if we already knew each other and I was glad to see him again.
“Hi?” He stared at me quizzically, in a tone that implied,
Do I know you?
I hurried into the bathroom and leaned against the door as my heart pounded.
Pull yourself together, girl
. I waited a few minutes for my racing pulse and breathing to normalize, and left the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the evening chatting up every single person at the party, bar none. I shared a joint with Terence, then had a great stoned conversation with a brilliant young author, Doug Rushkoff, as I distractedly admired a young woman’s behind, perfectly round and pert, unlike my own. But at all times, I always sensed exactly where He was in the room.
After the party, a group of us made plans to head down to Chinatown for dinner. As we gathered in the street, waiting for everyone toassemble, I asked Dan Levy to introduce me to Him. “This is Jeremy, my esteemed colleague,” he said, and He and I chatted a bit as we walked to the restaurant. I arranged it so that Jeremy and I were seated together, and further, I separated him from the girl with the nice butt. I rubbed my leg against his. I flirted shamelessly, as did he. We began to speak to each other exclusively, as if no one else was around us. When I dared to look right at him, face-to-face, the Cher song in my head became deafening. “Take me home, take me home.”
After drinks at a neighborhood bar, we walked back to his place, a fifth floor walk-up in Little Italy. The apartment was a classic cold-water flat, with the bathtub in the kitchen. I leaned against it as we kissed. Freedy Johnston’s “Can You Fly” was playing in the background. The music, his kisses … it was all perfect.
“Well, good night,” he teased, but I wasn’t going anywhere and we both knew it.
In the morning, after a diner breakfast, he walked me to the corner of White and Church, and we leaned on my car as we kissed good-bye. When I got home, he had already emailed me his phone number. We talked on the phone for the better part of that night.
The next morning I went back into Bellevue, but it was as if I had been away for a year, I was so changed. I was in a parallel universe, orbiting around my new sun, obsessing grandiosely about our impending life together.
The manic patient I admitted to CPEP on Monday was still there. I was disappointed to see he was still quite disorganized, despite the heroic doses of mood-stabilizer he’d received, which had left him a bit unsteady on his feet but seemed to have had no other effect. He remembered me from two days before, though, and flashed me a huge grin, seeming awfully glad to see me again.
“How are you feeling, pally? Any better?” I asked him.
He was watching the TV in the ER waiting room. The Oklahoma bombing had just occurred, and the television coverage was exhaustive. He looked up at me, beaming. “I’ve been hit by the love bomb,” he said proudly.
“Me too!” I replied.
Welcome to the Machine
A fter my Bellevue elective ended, I went back to Mount Sinai to finish my residency, and I
I walked from the corner to 395 Broadway, watching the litter swirl in the wind. I opened the door to the apartment. Cue the romantic music. Across a room filled with two dozen people, I saw a man who had seen me. I stared at him, thinking to myself, There he is, that’s my guy: long, brown curly hair, beautiful blue-green eyes, full, sexy lips, strong chin. I had a strange feeling that he was The One I was supposed to be with. It felt preordained, inevitable; my only job was to accept it. It was irrational, but I was sure of it. The very definition of delusional.
I got up the courage to say something as I passed him on the way to the bathroom.
“Hi!” I said, in a tone that implied an old friendship, as if we already knew each other and I was glad to see him again.
“Hi?” He stared at me quizzically, in a tone that implied,
Do I know you?
I hurried into the bathroom and leaned against the door as my heart pounded.
Pull yourself together, girl
. I waited a few minutes for my racing pulse and breathing to normalize, and left the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the evening chatting up every single person at the party, bar none. I shared a joint with Terence, then had a great stoned conversation with a brilliant young author, Doug Rushkoff, as I distractedly admired a young woman’s behind, perfectly round and pert, unlike my own. But at all times, I always sensed exactly where He was in the room.
After the party, a group of us made plans to head down to Chinatown for dinner. As we gathered in the street, waiting for everyone toassemble, I asked Dan Levy to introduce me to Him. “This is Jeremy, my esteemed colleague,” he said, and He and I chatted a bit as we walked to the restaurant. I arranged it so that Jeremy and I were seated together, and further, I separated him from the girl with the nice butt. I rubbed my leg against his. I flirted shamelessly, as did he. We began to speak to each other exclusively, as if no one else was around us. When I dared to look right at him, face-to-face, the Cher song in my head became deafening. “Take me home, take me home.”
After drinks at a neighborhood bar, we walked back to his place, a fifth floor walk-up in Little Italy. The apartment was a classic cold-water flat, with the bathtub in the kitchen. I leaned against it as we kissed. Freedy Johnston’s “Can You Fly” was playing in the background. The music, his kisses … it was all perfect.
“Well, good night,” he teased, but I wasn’t going anywhere and we both knew it.
In the morning, after a diner breakfast, he walked me to the corner of White and Church, and we leaned on my car as we kissed good-bye. When I got home, he had already emailed me his phone number. We talked on the phone for the better part of that night.
The next morning I went back into Bellevue, but it was as if I had been away for a year, I was so changed. I was in a parallel universe, orbiting around my new sun, obsessing grandiosely about our impending life together.
The manic patient I admitted to CPEP on Monday was still there. I was disappointed to see he was still quite disorganized, despite the heroic doses of mood-stabilizer he’d received, which had left him a bit unsteady on his feet but seemed to have had no other effect. He remembered me from two days before, though, and flashed me a huge grin, seeming awfully glad to see me again.
“How are you feeling, pally? Any better?” I asked him.
He was watching the TV in the ER waiting room. The Oklahoma bombing had just occurred, and the television coverage was exhaustive. He looked up at me, beaming. “I’ve been hit by the love bomb,” he said proudly.
“Me too!” I replied.
Welcome to the Machine
A fter my Bellevue elective ended, I went back to Mount Sinai to finish my residency, and I
Similar Books
