simple things. The good stuff.” He opened his eyes and raised his glass. Nate took another burning gulp.
The simple things sounded good to Nate. In fact, they sounded
right
. He was so tired of everything being so . . . challenging.Why couldn’t things just be easy for a change?
Being the prince of the Upper East Side is
so
exhausting. Chips opened the large white menu and perused it thoughtfully, humming softly to himself.
Nate looked at him over the top of his menu and suddenly wished there were a menu for real life—one that listed all of his options, and how much they cost. “I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. The minute he said it aloud, he knew it was true. He looked around again at all the old sailors, each and every one a man who’d chosen a path in life and stuck with it. One had even lost an eye over what he’d chosen. Or maybe they were just a bunch of old seaworthy fuckups.
“I’ll tell you one thing.” Chips closed his menu and leaned across the table. “You’ve got to think with your balls, not your dick.” His breath smelled like applesauce laced with grain alcohol. “Because the men who think with their dicks are cowards,” he finished, leaning back and nodding sagely.
Nate felt himself nodding back, even though he had no idea what Chips was talking about. Had he been thinking with his balls or his dick? Was he a coward? It
was
kind of cowardly not to have told Blair that he hadn’t really graduated, that he wasn’t going to Yale with her. . . .
Chips summoned the waiter again. “Two hard-boiled eggs and a shaker of salt,” he commanded. “For both of us.” Nate surrendered his menu to the waiter. Chips seemed to think his “I don’t know what I want” was about the food. Nate hated hard-boiled eggs, and all this talk of thinking with his dick and balls had kind of taken away his appetite for anything but that strong, barely drinkable scotch, anyway.
Well, drink up, honey. It might help you grow some.
v’s tea party for two
Vanessa stepped through the doors of the Galapagos Art Space in Brooklyn and looked around. The room was cavernous and densely packed with Williamsburg hipsters wearing striped shirts and sporting asymmetrical haircuts. Bar-height tables were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the room like croutons on a salad, and the grating sounds of three-chord punk blasted from the loudspeakers. Vanessa spied Ruby’s bandmates fussing with wires and plugs on a platform in the center of the room. The drum kit was adorned with the word SUGARDADDY, their band’s name, in garish red letters. She scanned the stage for Ruby, but her sister was nowhere in sight.
As Vanessa maneuvered her way to the front of the room, protecting her camera from dirty art boys and their Jack-and-Cokes, she spotted Piotr sitting at a table right in front of the stage, a full pitcher of Coke sitting in front of him. When Piotr saw her, he waved her over. Vanessa sighed, wishing she were more excited about filming her sister’s last gig as a single woman. She needed it to round out the Ruby
Retrospective she was making for her sister’s wedding present, but the reality of shooting the shit with her future
brother-in-law
, whom her sister would be
marrying
in just five days, was kind of unbearable. Vanessa kept forcing herself to say wedding-related words over and over again in her head to make it more real.
She got closer to his table and tried to smile. Droplets of water beaded on the cold pitcher of Coke. Vanessa licked her lips. She was pretty thirsty—maybe she could put up with Piotr for a few minutes while she loaded her camera and set up. If he was going to be family soon, she’d have to learn to converse with him, right?
“What’s up?” she asked, plunking her camera down on the table and almost knocking over the Coke.
“‘Allo, Vanessa.You made it,” Piotr said with an awkward, crooked-toothed smile. “You want?” He
The simple things sounded good to Nate. In fact, they sounded
right
. He was so tired of everything being so . . . challenging.Why couldn’t things just be easy for a change?
Being the prince of the Upper East Side is
so
exhausting. Chips opened the large white menu and perused it thoughtfully, humming softly to himself.
Nate looked at him over the top of his menu and suddenly wished there were a menu for real life—one that listed all of his options, and how much they cost. “I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. The minute he said it aloud, he knew it was true. He looked around again at all the old sailors, each and every one a man who’d chosen a path in life and stuck with it. One had even lost an eye over what he’d chosen. Or maybe they were just a bunch of old seaworthy fuckups.
“I’ll tell you one thing.” Chips closed his menu and leaned across the table. “You’ve got to think with your balls, not your dick.” His breath smelled like applesauce laced with grain alcohol. “Because the men who think with their dicks are cowards,” he finished, leaning back and nodding sagely.
Nate felt himself nodding back, even though he had no idea what Chips was talking about. Had he been thinking with his balls or his dick? Was he a coward? It
was
kind of cowardly not to have told Blair that he hadn’t really graduated, that he wasn’t going to Yale with her. . . .
Chips summoned the waiter again. “Two hard-boiled eggs and a shaker of salt,” he commanded. “For both of us.” Nate surrendered his menu to the waiter. Chips seemed to think his “I don’t know what I want” was about the food. Nate hated hard-boiled eggs, and all this talk of thinking with his dick and balls had kind of taken away his appetite for anything but that strong, barely drinkable scotch, anyway.
Well, drink up, honey. It might help you grow some.
v’s tea party for two
Vanessa stepped through the doors of the Galapagos Art Space in Brooklyn and looked around. The room was cavernous and densely packed with Williamsburg hipsters wearing striped shirts and sporting asymmetrical haircuts. Bar-height tables were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the room like croutons on a salad, and the grating sounds of three-chord punk blasted from the loudspeakers. Vanessa spied Ruby’s bandmates fussing with wires and plugs on a platform in the center of the room. The drum kit was adorned with the word SUGARDADDY, their band’s name, in garish red letters. She scanned the stage for Ruby, but her sister was nowhere in sight.
As Vanessa maneuvered her way to the front of the room, protecting her camera from dirty art boys and their Jack-and-Cokes, she spotted Piotr sitting at a table right in front of the stage, a full pitcher of Coke sitting in front of him. When Piotr saw her, he waved her over. Vanessa sighed, wishing she were more excited about filming her sister’s last gig as a single woman. She needed it to round out the Ruby
Retrospective she was making for her sister’s wedding present, but the reality of shooting the shit with her future
brother-in-law
, whom her sister would be
marrying
in just five days, was kind of unbearable. Vanessa kept forcing herself to say wedding-related words over and over again in her head to make it more real.
She got closer to his table and tried to smile. Droplets of water beaded on the cold pitcher of Coke. Vanessa licked her lips. She was pretty thirsty—maybe she could put up with Piotr for a few minutes while she loaded her camera and set up. If he was going to be family soon, she’d have to learn to converse with him, right?
“What’s up?” she asked, plunking her camera down on the table and almost knocking over the Coke.
“‘Allo, Vanessa.You made it,” Piotr said with an awkward, crooked-toothed smile. “You want?” He
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