Thursday, May 9, 2013
Lower East Side, Manhattan
7:36 p.m.
I’m at The Sixth Ward on Orchard Street. My dirty martini is being shaken as we speak. I’m sitting at a picnic table in the back, outside on the New York City patio, a cement lot bordered by brick buildings. Not a blade of grass grows between the cracks in the asphalt. But I can see the sky.—It’s about to get dark. I am writing this just in time.
Alright, martini delivered. First sip down. Let’s cut to the chase.—Chance.
Chance Encounter is back in Brooklyn. For just a few nights after his friend’s wedding this past weekend.
You know, the wedding he invited me to as his date. When I was visiting him in St. Thomas.—The wedding I couldn’t go to because I had to be with my family that day, on Long Island, for the unveiling of my Grandmother’s gravestone.—F*ck.
…F*ck!—I’m yelling now, if by yelling I mean gripping my pen and writing faster—I can’t believe I couldn’t go to that wedding! Of all the f*cking weekends, these things had to be on the same one. Like, what the f*ck?…
Another sip. Good martini. I’m cool. Ok, back to the story.
After I regretfully declined his wedding invitation, Chance told me he’d try to see me during the week. But he couldn’t guarantee anything. He was going to be really busy; he just wanted me to know that.
I finally heard from him last night around eight.—What am I doing? Can he pick me up?
Half an hour later, his black pickup truck rolled onto the block. I fluttered to the street and waved. He unlocked the door, and I climbed in.
He was happy to see me. I know because he couldn’t stop smiling as he shifted gears and pulled away from the curb.
We were alone on the road, lined by streetlamps and idle cars. The radio was tuned to classic rock, Chance’s favorite. The local DJ was on one, cranking out all the bangers.
I said, “I thought you’d want to see me more while you’re here. But you don’t. So whatever, it’s fine.” I smiled and rolled my eyes, like I was too cool for a broken heart.
Chance shifted again, and we coasted toward a red light. When the truck was still, he made a move, reaching for the radio dial. The volume of classic rock faded into nothing as Chance turned toward me and said, “Charlotte, I love you. You are this, and that, and another thing.”—Something like that. I can’t remember exactly. Nothing mattered after, “I love you.”
Chance parked the pickup parallel, one block away from his apartment. Then he kissed me deeply, and f*ck it was amazing. He’s so sexy in his white tee and denim, as if the Boss were born in 1988.
When Chance tells me that he loves me, I believe him. I mean, he did make me that Spotify playlist with all kinds of cha cha songs, including that one song, Cha Cha Bang, with the chorus that sings about this girl who “might be the one.”—Did he even listen to that song before he sent it to me? How could he send me a song like that?—Chance Encounter is f*cking with my emotions, but I’m not convinced it’s on purpose. He’s just a boy in love.
I love you too, Chance Encounter.—I’ll never tell him that, but I’m pretty sure it’s obvious, which is why he’s pushing me away. He wants me to remember, I’m moving to California soon. As if I’m the one moving away. He moved away first!
I am salty, like this dirty martini. Salty like the tears I hate crying over Chance Encounter. Another great guy too busy to be my boyfriend.
Ok, that’s dark enough. Time to move on tonight.
