a group gathered for dinner at a Japanese restaurant, and I finally got up the nerve to seat myself across from him. I immediately started name-dropping. We had mutual acquaintances. I’d researched.
I WAS SHOCKED TO DISCOVER that when the Playwright listened, he listened with absolute focus. None of the men I’d met lately had had this quality. Revise. None of the men I’d ever met had had this quality, at least not so intensely. He made me so nervous that I managed to use my chopsticks backward, but he also had a big, raucous laugh, a brilliant smile, and something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was perfectly sociable, but there was a certain restraint beneath the surface. I spent the evening trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying. When he thought no one was watching him, something arrived in his eyes. It seemed to be sadness, though I felt that this was implausible. What did he have to be sad about? I could only imagine having a life as fantastic as the Playwright’s was. He wrote for a living, screenplays as well as plays. And he wasn’t just hoping to be discovered in the slush pile—the Schwab’s drugstore of screenwriters—as everyone I knew at NYU was. He wrote for Hollywood, which, to my mind, gave him a golden glow. He owned a house, with a view of a lake. He had his very own Pulitzer, for God’s sake, and short of a Nobel, that was as good as it got. The man had the perfect life.
I decided that I was wrong about the sadness. Maybe he was just tired. He caught me staring, and gave me the smile again.
“Sorry, what? I was drifting,” he said.
“Thinking about your play?”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “You, too?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “It’s all I ever think about.”
He handed me my fortune cookie. “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Typical. The universe was sending me an inappropriate message. What step? The Playwright was wearing a wedding ring. That step was not going to happen.
We drank our tea. We talked until everyone else was ready to leave, and then we talked some more as we walked home. I was still starstruck, and I was happy to discover that I had reason to be. The Playwright was not only a wonderful writer, he seemed to be a wonderful person.
It figured that the only wonderful person I’d met in months was someone I had no prayer of ever dating. He’d never ask, and even if he did, I’d never be able to say yes. Married. Kids. I wasn’t in the market for that particular disaster, and my yes policy, without question, didn’t include cheaters. Oh well. I didn’t need to worry about it anyway, because he showed no sign of being interested in me. Which, I reminded myself, was a really good thing.
“SO, WHAT’RE YOU LOOKING FOR, Maria Headley?” The Playwright and I were leaning up against a ballroom wall, sick of working the room during the conference’s final cocktail party. I’d seen him edging toward the door. Since I’d been doing the same thing, I’d joined him. “What’s your life missing?”
“A better class of man,” I said, without thinking, and then regretted it. I sounded stupid. Of course my life needed things other than a man—what was I, the heroine of a 1930s pulp romance?—but somehow, alas, that was what had come out. Had I a brain at all, I might have said something along the lines of “an air conditioner,” or “enough money to pay my rent this month.”
“What do you mean? I can’t imagine you have a hard time getting a date…?” He seemed genuinely amazed. I was flattered, but certainly, it was possible for me to imagine myself forever dateless, and forever loveless seemed even more plausible. Look at what had happened with the Boxer. Look at the Princelings. The Handyman. Martyrman. Zak, the only one I really cared about. Look at everything. I could see plenty of my flaws, and it was very likely that there were more flaws just waiting to be discovered. I talked too fast, and
I WAS SHOCKED TO DISCOVER that when the Playwright listened, he listened with absolute focus. None of the men I’d met lately had had this quality. Revise. None of the men I’d ever met had had this quality, at least not so intensely. He made me so nervous that I managed to use my chopsticks backward, but he also had a big, raucous laugh, a brilliant smile, and something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was perfectly sociable, but there was a certain restraint beneath the surface. I spent the evening trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying. When he thought no one was watching him, something arrived in his eyes. It seemed to be sadness, though I felt that this was implausible. What did he have to be sad about? I could only imagine having a life as fantastic as the Playwright’s was. He wrote for a living, screenplays as well as plays. And he wasn’t just hoping to be discovered in the slush pile—the Schwab’s drugstore of screenwriters—as everyone I knew at NYU was. He wrote for Hollywood, which, to my mind, gave him a golden glow. He owned a house, with a view of a lake. He had his very own Pulitzer, for God’s sake, and short of a Nobel, that was as good as it got. The man had the perfect life.
I decided that I was wrong about the sadness. Maybe he was just tired. He caught me staring, and gave me the smile again.
“Sorry, what? I was drifting,” he said.
“Thinking about your play?”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “You, too?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “It’s all I ever think about.”
He handed me my fortune cookie. “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Typical. The universe was sending me an inappropriate message. What step? The Playwright was wearing a wedding ring. That step was not going to happen.
We drank our tea. We talked until everyone else was ready to leave, and then we talked some more as we walked home. I was still starstruck, and I was happy to discover that I had reason to be. The Playwright was not only a wonderful writer, he seemed to be a wonderful person.
It figured that the only wonderful person I’d met in months was someone I had no prayer of ever dating. He’d never ask, and even if he did, I’d never be able to say yes. Married. Kids. I wasn’t in the market for that particular disaster, and my yes policy, without question, didn’t include cheaters. Oh well. I didn’t need to worry about it anyway, because he showed no sign of being interested in me. Which, I reminded myself, was a really good thing.
“SO, WHAT’RE YOU LOOKING FOR, Maria Headley?” The Playwright and I were leaning up against a ballroom wall, sick of working the room during the conference’s final cocktail party. I’d seen him edging toward the door. Since I’d been doing the same thing, I’d joined him. “What’s your life missing?”
“A better class of man,” I said, without thinking, and then regretted it. I sounded stupid. Of course my life needed things other than a man—what was I, the heroine of a 1930s pulp romance?—but somehow, alas, that was what had come out. Had I a brain at all, I might have said something along the lines of “an air conditioner,” or “enough money to pay my rent this month.”
“What do you mean? I can’t imagine you have a hard time getting a date…?” He seemed genuinely amazed. I was flattered, but certainly, it was possible for me to imagine myself forever dateless, and forever loveless seemed even more plausible. Look at what had happened with the Boxer. Look at the Princelings. The Handyman. Martyrman. Zak, the only one I really cared about. Look at everything. I could see plenty of my flaws, and it was very likely that there were more flaws just waiting to be discovered. I talked too fast, and
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