Street, all the restaurants and bars open, people chatting and smiling and having a good time as if everything in the world was okay, when nothing was okay. I wove up and down the side streets, sweating, that fishy smell following me, mixing with the garbage stewing in the hot night air, and when I finally got home there was a rat rooting around in the small plot of dirt in front of my place and I got a brick and smashed it, over and over and over, then dragged my rat-bloodied hands across half the Lola drawings, smudging the charcoal until it turned to brown mush because I was finished with her; it was over between us.
After that, I was happy to go to my job every day, building stretchers, and stayed late so I wouldn’t run into her. I was getting over her, the loss and all, and there was this new girl, a blonde, who rode the PATH and lived in Hoboken, alone—I know because I followed her—and she might have become the one—I was getting ready—but then, I saw Lola again.
“Don’t I know you?” she asked. She was standing over me wearing skinny black designer jeans, the crotch right at my face blocking my view of the blonde.
“I don’t think so,” I said, holding my breath, my heart beating fast.
“Sure,” she said. “It was at Caterina’s, you know, the gourmet place? You knocked a bag right out of my hand?”
“Oh—right—sorry about that.”
“No biggie,” she said and started chatting, asking if I lived in Hoboken, and I told her I did, starting to feel lightheaded because I’d been holding my breath, and after a minute, when I didn’t say anything more, she went and sat down opposite me and put in her iPod earphones and crossed her legs, top one bouncing to the beat of the song in her head, her lips moving too, and when we got to Hoboken she gave me a little wave, then got off, and I purposely lagged behind—I really wanted to be finished with her—but when I came out of the station there she was, and she smiled, and that was it, like we’d never broken up.
I started making new drawings and paintings of her and stayed home from work for a week, and when I finally felt ready to show them I showered and changed and combed my hair and went and waited by the PATH train until I saw her.
“Hi,” I said.
Lola looked up sort of confused like she didn’t recognize me, then smiled and said, “Oh, hi,” and I just sort of fell in line with her as she walked. I’d prepared some small talk this time, stuff I’d Googled about Hoboken to impress her.
“Did you know they held the first baseball game here?”
“Really?” Her dark eyebrows arched up.
“And it’s where Lipton Tea and Maxwell House Coffee were made.”
“I didn’t know about the tea. But the big Maxwell House sign is still there, and I like it.”
“Right,” I said, a little annoyed with myself that I’d forgotten about the sign.
“You’re like a regular Hoboken tour guide,” she said, and that’s when I told her I was an artist, a painter, and she asked, “What do you paint?” a question I really hate, but said, “Portraits,” and she said, “Really? Of who?” and I wanted to say, Of you, but said, “All sorts,” and she asked, “Where do you show?” which is my other least-favorite question, but I said, “I’m between galleries,” and she said, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and I said, “It’s okay,” and quickly added, “I’m having a show in Europe,” and she said, “Where?” and I said, “Japan,” because it was far away and I didn’t think she’d be going there anytime soon, and she said, “I thought you said Europe,” and I laughed and said, “Oh—it’s all the same to me,” and she laughed too and said, “My husband goes to Japan all the time, to Tokyo,” and I said, “Why?” and she said, “For business,” and I asked, “What kind of business?” and she said, “Finance,” and I said, “My paintings aren’t leaving for Japan for a few weeks if you’d like to see
After that, I was happy to go to my job every day, building stretchers, and stayed late so I wouldn’t run into her. I was getting over her, the loss and all, and there was this new girl, a blonde, who rode the PATH and lived in Hoboken, alone—I know because I followed her—and she might have become the one—I was getting ready—but then, I saw Lola again.
“Don’t I know you?” she asked. She was standing over me wearing skinny black designer jeans, the crotch right at my face blocking my view of the blonde.
“I don’t think so,” I said, holding my breath, my heart beating fast.
“Sure,” she said. “It was at Caterina’s, you know, the gourmet place? You knocked a bag right out of my hand?”
“Oh—right—sorry about that.”
“No biggie,” she said and started chatting, asking if I lived in Hoboken, and I told her I did, starting to feel lightheaded because I’d been holding my breath, and after a minute, when I didn’t say anything more, she went and sat down opposite me and put in her iPod earphones and crossed her legs, top one bouncing to the beat of the song in her head, her lips moving too, and when we got to Hoboken she gave me a little wave, then got off, and I purposely lagged behind—I really wanted to be finished with her—but when I came out of the station there she was, and she smiled, and that was it, like we’d never broken up.
I started making new drawings and paintings of her and stayed home from work for a week, and when I finally felt ready to show them I showered and changed and combed my hair and went and waited by the PATH train until I saw her.
“Hi,” I said.
Lola looked up sort of confused like she didn’t recognize me, then smiled and said, “Oh, hi,” and I just sort of fell in line with her as she walked. I’d prepared some small talk this time, stuff I’d Googled about Hoboken to impress her.
“Did you know they held the first baseball game here?”
“Really?” Her dark eyebrows arched up.
“And it’s where Lipton Tea and Maxwell House Coffee were made.”
“I didn’t know about the tea. But the big Maxwell House sign is still there, and I like it.”
“Right,” I said, a little annoyed with myself that I’d forgotten about the sign.
“You’re like a regular Hoboken tour guide,” she said, and that’s when I told her I was an artist, a painter, and she asked, “What do you paint?” a question I really hate, but said, “Portraits,” and she said, “Really? Of who?” and I wanted to say, Of you, but said, “All sorts,” and she asked, “Where do you show?” which is my other least-favorite question, but I said, “I’m between galleries,” and she said, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and I said, “It’s okay,” and quickly added, “I’m having a show in Europe,” and she said, “Where?” and I said, “Japan,” because it was far away and I didn’t think she’d be going there anytime soon, and she said, “I thought you said Europe,” and I laughed and said, “Oh—it’s all the same to me,” and she laughed too and said, “My husband goes to Japan all the time, to Tokyo,” and I said, “Why?” and she said, “For business,” and I asked, “What kind of business?” and she said, “Finance,” and I said, “My paintings aren’t leaving for Japan for a few weeks if you’d like to see
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