into our office and wave her off. “Molly, it was just a guy that found something of mine. Where are we on the Metcalf Barn Dance?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
“Oh? Oh. Well, I found two barns in Westchester that are serviceable for a large party, but we really need to get them to limit the number of guests.”
“That’s great news. I’m meeting with them on Thursday and I will make sure they trim the list.” I sit down at my desk and busy myself with a catalogue of western décor.
Molly taps her nails against her desk, waiting for my attention. “So Natalie, I was thinking we could throw a party for Zach in December. It’ll be tough with our holiday commitments, but wouldn’t it be nice?” She has been extremely delicate approaching the subject of Zach because she knows I’m a little unstable. One minute, I’m happily playing the role of the hero’s lover in a dreamy state of euphoria and then without warning, my unfiltered mouth starts announcing my plans to protest in D.C. It’s been a year of emotional turmoil that has challenged me, surprised me, and devastated me. But with all my pain, I never show weakness and I never lose hope.
I put down the magazine and smile. “Yes. Zach would love a small party. We can book The Bridge for the night, I’m sure of it.” It’ll be nice to busy myself until he returns, and a coming home party is just the thing.
Molly claps her manicured hands, causing her bangles to shimmy around her wrists. “What’s his favorite band? Whichever it is, I’ll get them!”
“I don’t know – he likes all music. What about a stripper or a magician?” I ask sarcastically. “Seriously Molly, Zach will just want to drink a few beers with his friends.”
Molly shakes her head in agreement. “That sounds lovely. Do whatever you think he’ll like – but I’m paying for everything! Deal?”
“Molly, you’re an amazing person. Do you know that?”
“Oh sweetie, you make an old, Southern lady blush. Zach purposely left you in good hands, and I couldn’t be happier.”
It’s true. Most dreams are simply a pursuit of happiness.
A STORIA, Q UEENS, IS an urban center set against the backdrop of 1970s Europe. And I mean that in a good way – actually, no I don’t. The butchered goat heads in the storefront windows make me want to barf, and I’m fucking lost in a neighborhood without a goddamn woman to be found.
I pop into the nearest bakery for some directions and chocolate baklava for my guilt gut. It smells delicious and maybe I can convince my clients to have a dessert party instead of their requested menu of lamb gyros and falafels. I smile at a cute older woman behind the counter. She seems normal enough to help a crazy Canuck like me.
She returns my smile and waves me over. “Hello, koukla mou! What can YaYa get you?” Her accent is thick and scratchy but surprisingly, very comforting.
“I’m lost,” I say.
“YaYa knows.” She winks.
I glance around the socialist-looking bakery to make sure there are no KGB informants or eavesdroppers, and then, whether she wants to hear it or not, I let my heart explode. “The man I love is fighting a never-ending war in the mountains of Afghanistan and yet I can’t seem to keep my legs closed. I slept with a really decent guy for no reason except to have the numbing pain leave my body for a short time.”
YaYa hands me a napkin and small square of baklava. Tears start to burn my eyes as I shove the nutty cake in my mouth. “I convinced my sweet cousin to move to New York and follow her dream of being a famous musician, but she’s working in a bar – and I don’t care as long as she stays with me. She met a great guy, like she really likes him and he’s incredibly gorgeous – and I would know because I slept with him, too! I think.” YaYa lowers her chin to her neck and peers at me through her tiny glasses. “I know. I’m a selfish, horrible person. Can I have another one?”
YaYa picks a
“Oh? Oh. Well, I found two barns in Westchester that are serviceable for a large party, but we really need to get them to limit the number of guests.”
“That’s great news. I’m meeting with them on Thursday and I will make sure they trim the list.” I sit down at my desk and busy myself with a catalogue of western décor.
Molly taps her nails against her desk, waiting for my attention. “So Natalie, I was thinking we could throw a party for Zach in December. It’ll be tough with our holiday commitments, but wouldn’t it be nice?” She has been extremely delicate approaching the subject of Zach because she knows I’m a little unstable. One minute, I’m happily playing the role of the hero’s lover in a dreamy state of euphoria and then without warning, my unfiltered mouth starts announcing my plans to protest in D.C. It’s been a year of emotional turmoil that has challenged me, surprised me, and devastated me. But with all my pain, I never show weakness and I never lose hope.
I put down the magazine and smile. “Yes. Zach would love a small party. We can book The Bridge for the night, I’m sure of it.” It’ll be nice to busy myself until he returns, and a coming home party is just the thing.
Molly claps her manicured hands, causing her bangles to shimmy around her wrists. “What’s his favorite band? Whichever it is, I’ll get them!”
“I don’t know – he likes all music. What about a stripper or a magician?” I ask sarcastically. “Seriously Molly, Zach will just want to drink a few beers with his friends.”
Molly shakes her head in agreement. “That sounds lovely. Do whatever you think he’ll like – but I’m paying for everything! Deal?”
“Molly, you’re an amazing person. Do you know that?”
“Oh sweetie, you make an old, Southern lady blush. Zach purposely left you in good hands, and I couldn’t be happier.”
It’s true. Most dreams are simply a pursuit of happiness.
A STORIA, Q UEENS, IS an urban center set against the backdrop of 1970s Europe. And I mean that in a good way – actually, no I don’t. The butchered goat heads in the storefront windows make me want to barf, and I’m fucking lost in a neighborhood without a goddamn woman to be found.
I pop into the nearest bakery for some directions and chocolate baklava for my guilt gut. It smells delicious and maybe I can convince my clients to have a dessert party instead of their requested menu of lamb gyros and falafels. I smile at a cute older woman behind the counter. She seems normal enough to help a crazy Canuck like me.
She returns my smile and waves me over. “Hello, koukla mou! What can YaYa get you?” Her accent is thick and scratchy but surprisingly, very comforting.
“I’m lost,” I say.
“YaYa knows.” She winks.
I glance around the socialist-looking bakery to make sure there are no KGB informants or eavesdroppers, and then, whether she wants to hear it or not, I let my heart explode. “The man I love is fighting a never-ending war in the mountains of Afghanistan and yet I can’t seem to keep my legs closed. I slept with a really decent guy for no reason except to have the numbing pain leave my body for a short time.”
YaYa hands me a napkin and small square of baklava. Tears start to burn my eyes as I shove the nutty cake in my mouth. “I convinced my sweet cousin to move to New York and follow her dream of being a famous musician, but she’s working in a bar – and I don’t care as long as she stays with me. She met a great guy, like she really likes him and he’s incredibly gorgeous – and I would know because I slept with him, too! I think.” YaYa lowers her chin to her neck and peers at me through her tiny glasses. “I know. I’m a selfish, horrible person. Can I have another one?”
YaYa picks a
Similar Books
