downstairs and meet him at the front door even though he has been to my apartment before. It seems presumptuous to ask someone to take the elevator up to your apartment when you are perfectly capable of meeting them downstairs.
Unfortunately, I do not account for the possibility that someone has let him into the building, so he receives a second shriek from me when I turn around from locking my door and find him standing behind me. My neighbor must spend her whole life with her hand on the knob because she throws her door open again and barks out some words about babies sleeping in a voice reminiscent of the banshees screeching about your certain death.
“I am so sorry, Diana,” I whisper loudly. “We’re actually leaving.”
She makes a face, as if I’ve only said that to rub her face in the fact that I can go out and she has to stay home with her sleeping child. I fumble for a moment, trying to think of what to say, but at that moment, the elevator doors open again, and Gael beckons me inside as if we’re exiting for a clandestine affair.
The doors close, and we start our descent. Gael discreetly looks me up and down while allowing his eyes to wander to the lit-up floor numbers between glancing at each body part. “You look very beautiful,” he tells me, not in a voice that suggests he wants to get into the pants he just appreciated visually, but simply as fact. I am beautiful.
My face burns, and I mumble something gracious. The fact is that I’m not the kind of woman who gets whistled at on the street. I don’t have men following me down into the subway with their eyes glued to my ass. I don’t even have men give up their seats for me when I’m juggling five bags of groceries on my way home to cook. The last person to tell me that I looked beautiful was Adam, and that was years ago.
It feels nice to have someone else concur that I look good, especially after so much thought was given to choosing an outfit between every possible statement. We step outside, and I shiver for a moment, the shock of the cold shooting down my spine into the three-inch heels Arianna convinced me to wear. Height , she informed me, is sexy . Especially next to a tall, Spanish man.
“You go out in winter without a scarf?” he asks, pointing at my neck. “The cold doesn’t bother you?”
“The cold bothers me a lot,” I say, uncrossing my arms to show him that I’m shaking. The scarves I own don’t go with the look I’m trying to convey. He puts his arm around me in a way that could be construed as brotherly but I choose to take as romantic. I lean into his partial hug, and we awkwardly stumble down the street together. We could use a little practice.
“Have you lived here a long time?” Gael asks. “In Murray Hill?”
“About nine months,” I say. “Almost ten months.”
“It’s a great neighborhood,” he tells me. “It must be nice to be on the same side of the city as the museums. Easy to get to the Guggenheim from here.”
I decide in that moment that I love him.
Adam and I used to trek out to the Guggenheim early in our relationship, back when we made time for taking advantage of New York —the art museums and shows and myriad of restaurants. We even had a Picasso poster in our living room from an old 1999 exhibit.
Adam let our dual Guggenheim membership lapse a few years later, claiming we didn’t have time to use it anyway. That loss probably contributed to my bad moods. There is nothing better for staving off seasonal affective disorder than the clean whiteness that falls across the museum when the winter sun comes in through the glass roof.
“I love the ceiling,” I tell Gael.
“Me too,” he agrees. “We’ll have to go sometime.”
“There’s a Kandinsky exhibit right now,” I say, his hip awkwardly bumping into my side as we walk.
“There’s also the Museum of Sex ,” he mentions, grinning like a nine-year-old boy who has just found his father’s Playboys . “That’s
Unfortunately, I do not account for the possibility that someone has let him into the building, so he receives a second shriek from me when I turn around from locking my door and find him standing behind me. My neighbor must spend her whole life with her hand on the knob because she throws her door open again and barks out some words about babies sleeping in a voice reminiscent of the banshees screeching about your certain death.
“I am so sorry, Diana,” I whisper loudly. “We’re actually leaving.”
She makes a face, as if I’ve only said that to rub her face in the fact that I can go out and she has to stay home with her sleeping child. I fumble for a moment, trying to think of what to say, but at that moment, the elevator doors open again, and Gael beckons me inside as if we’re exiting for a clandestine affair.
The doors close, and we start our descent. Gael discreetly looks me up and down while allowing his eyes to wander to the lit-up floor numbers between glancing at each body part. “You look very beautiful,” he tells me, not in a voice that suggests he wants to get into the pants he just appreciated visually, but simply as fact. I am beautiful.
My face burns, and I mumble something gracious. The fact is that I’m not the kind of woman who gets whistled at on the street. I don’t have men following me down into the subway with their eyes glued to my ass. I don’t even have men give up their seats for me when I’m juggling five bags of groceries on my way home to cook. The last person to tell me that I looked beautiful was Adam, and that was years ago.
It feels nice to have someone else concur that I look good, especially after so much thought was given to choosing an outfit between every possible statement. We step outside, and I shiver for a moment, the shock of the cold shooting down my spine into the three-inch heels Arianna convinced me to wear. Height , she informed me, is sexy . Especially next to a tall, Spanish man.
“You go out in winter without a scarf?” he asks, pointing at my neck. “The cold doesn’t bother you?”
“The cold bothers me a lot,” I say, uncrossing my arms to show him that I’m shaking. The scarves I own don’t go with the look I’m trying to convey. He puts his arm around me in a way that could be construed as brotherly but I choose to take as romantic. I lean into his partial hug, and we awkwardly stumble down the street together. We could use a little practice.
“Have you lived here a long time?” Gael asks. “In Murray Hill?”
“About nine months,” I say. “Almost ten months.”
“It’s a great neighborhood,” he tells me. “It must be nice to be on the same side of the city as the museums. Easy to get to the Guggenheim from here.”
I decide in that moment that I love him.
Adam and I used to trek out to the Guggenheim early in our relationship, back when we made time for taking advantage of New York —the art museums and shows and myriad of restaurants. We even had a Picasso poster in our living room from an old 1999 exhibit.
Adam let our dual Guggenheim membership lapse a few years later, claiming we didn’t have time to use it anyway. That loss probably contributed to my bad moods. There is nothing better for staving off seasonal affective disorder than the clean whiteness that falls across the museum when the winter sun comes in through the glass roof.
“I love the ceiling,” I tell Gael.
“Me too,” he agrees. “We’ll have to go sometime.”
“There’s a Kandinsky exhibit right now,” I say, his hip awkwardly bumping into my side as we walk.
“There’s also the Museum of Sex ,” he mentions, grinning like a nine-year-old boy who has just found his father’s Playboys . “That’s
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