and refused to go farther. He pushed harder, but it was a stubborn ring.
“I think my finger’s too fat,” I giggled, though I am not generally a giggler.
“Nonsense. We’ll just have to have the ring resized. I’ll make an appointment for us at Fred Leighton as soon as we get back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s so perfect.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. Steven was always so steady and kind. I sighed and set my arms over his shoulders and smiled ruefully.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said, definitively. “Very, very sure.”
blue Fiji swimming head
I didn’t see Ty for all of June. I think he went to Philly to play a few times and I was just so busy with work and spending time with my fiancé. But Ty called to remind me that July 13 was his birthday. Rather than commit to his East Village birthday party, which would be heinously drunken and loud, I talked him into letting me take him to dinner at a sidewalk café on Second Avenue. I made an 8:30 reservation but told him to be there at 7:45. I watched him amble down the street toward me at 8:14. I took him by the elbow and walked him away from the restaurant.
“Hey, isn’t this the place?”
“Yeah, I told the waiter we’re coming right back.”
I situated him on the corner of Second and Thirty-fourth, slid a pair of Ray-Bans on him, and turned him westward. “Look.”
“Oh, man ! Awesome!” he said, squinting.
The sun was setting on the horizon, bold and round and orange, in perfect alignment with the street. A lot of people were around us looking/not looking at it.
“Manhattanhenge. It happens a couple times a year. Happy birthday!” “Yeah. Happy birthday to me,” he mused absently. I could see that there was a song starting to brew while his retinas were frying.
“Stop looking at the sun now,” I said.
“Okay.” He smiled happily at the big blue dot he was probably seeing instead of my face. We walked back to the café.
We reclaimed our table and ordered. Then we looked at each other. It had been a while, five weeks at least.
“Your hair’s longer than mine now,” I said.
“Yeah, you look like Scout.”
“Edward said Ramona the Pest.”
He shyly slid a CD across the table to me. It had a charming black-and-white picture of him on the cover, in profile, laughing. He had the nicest nose.
“My new demo. It has all your songs on it.”
“ My songs,” I laughed. “Please.”
He smiled.
I gave him his presents. A book: Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick , and a CD: Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside .
He examined the book suspiciously. “It better be fucking hilarious.”
“It is! Look, even the title is funny.”
“Did they make it into a movie?”
“Um . . . I think maybe they did?”
“ ’Cause maybe we can watch it when I finish.”
I smiled. “I’ll Google it.”
He picked up the CD. “Hey, this was on your list!”
“Yeah, I can’t wait for you to hear it.”
Our food came and for a while we just ate and watched people go by. That was something I liked about doing things with Ty. He could talk, quite a lot. But companionable silence was easy, too.
I figured I should let him know I was getting married. All my other friends knew. I was inexplicably nervous about telling him, but now seemed like a good, mellow time.
“Hey, by the way,” I said. “I’m getting married.”
He had been watching a red-haired woman swish down the street, but his eyes came back to me and his chewing slowed. He looked at my hand, resting on the table. At the big shiny piece of metal and mineral I was wearing. He drank some beer and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at me, hard.
“Well, congratulations,” he said rather loudly.
“Um . . . thanks.”
“Um . . . you’re welcome.”
“Ty . . . aren’t you happy for me?”
“ No .” He was actually glaring at me now. So much for mellow.
“ Shit , Grace!” he said violently.
“What
“I think my finger’s too fat,” I giggled, though I am not generally a giggler.
“Nonsense. We’ll just have to have the ring resized. I’ll make an appointment for us at Fred Leighton as soon as we get back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s so perfect.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. Steven was always so steady and kind. I sighed and set my arms over his shoulders and smiled ruefully.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said, definitively. “Very, very sure.”
blue Fiji swimming head
I didn’t see Ty for all of June. I think he went to Philly to play a few times and I was just so busy with work and spending time with my fiancé. But Ty called to remind me that July 13 was his birthday. Rather than commit to his East Village birthday party, which would be heinously drunken and loud, I talked him into letting me take him to dinner at a sidewalk café on Second Avenue. I made an 8:30 reservation but told him to be there at 7:45. I watched him amble down the street toward me at 8:14. I took him by the elbow and walked him away from the restaurant.
“Hey, isn’t this the place?”
“Yeah, I told the waiter we’re coming right back.”
I situated him on the corner of Second and Thirty-fourth, slid a pair of Ray-Bans on him, and turned him westward. “Look.”
“Oh, man ! Awesome!” he said, squinting.
The sun was setting on the horizon, bold and round and orange, in perfect alignment with the street. A lot of people were around us looking/not looking at it.
“Manhattanhenge. It happens a couple times a year. Happy birthday!” “Yeah. Happy birthday to me,” he mused absently. I could see that there was a song starting to brew while his retinas were frying.
“Stop looking at the sun now,” I said.
“Okay.” He smiled happily at the big blue dot he was probably seeing instead of my face. We walked back to the café.
We reclaimed our table and ordered. Then we looked at each other. It had been a while, five weeks at least.
“Your hair’s longer than mine now,” I said.
“Yeah, you look like Scout.”
“Edward said Ramona the Pest.”
He shyly slid a CD across the table to me. It had a charming black-and-white picture of him on the cover, in profile, laughing. He had the nicest nose.
“My new demo. It has all your songs on it.”
“ My songs,” I laughed. “Please.”
He smiled.
I gave him his presents. A book: Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick , and a CD: Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside .
He examined the book suspiciously. “It better be fucking hilarious.”
“It is! Look, even the title is funny.”
“Did they make it into a movie?”
“Um . . . I think maybe they did?”
“ ’Cause maybe we can watch it when I finish.”
I smiled. “I’ll Google it.”
He picked up the CD. “Hey, this was on your list!”
“Yeah, I can’t wait for you to hear it.”
Our food came and for a while we just ate and watched people go by. That was something I liked about doing things with Ty. He could talk, quite a lot. But companionable silence was easy, too.
I figured I should let him know I was getting married. All my other friends knew. I was inexplicably nervous about telling him, but now seemed like a good, mellow time.
“Hey, by the way,” I said. “I’m getting married.”
He had been watching a red-haired woman swish down the street, but his eyes came back to me and his chewing slowed. He looked at my hand, resting on the table. At the big shiny piece of metal and mineral I was wearing. He drank some beer and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at me, hard.
“Well, congratulations,” he said rather loudly.
“Um . . . thanks.”
“Um . . . you’re welcome.”
“Ty . . . aren’t you happy for me?”
“ No .” He was actually glaring at me now. So much for mellow.
“ Shit , Grace!” he said violently.
“What
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