Friday.
3 pm: My first proper date with the philosopher. Simon Rattle's debut at the Met: Pelleas et Mellisande at eight. I am to meet him at seven by the fountain, for an aperitif. I think, I am Cher.
6:04 pm: On the F train to Manhattan, in wool tights and big girl heels, I listen to Christmas Adagios.
6:16 pm: Transfering to the C, I check my eye makeup. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
6:19 pm: A screech, the train lurches, we stop.
6:47pm: Nosed two doors deep into the Spring Street station, the natives grow restless, shifting weight from foot to foot and sighing at their watches, their cell phones.
6:58 pm: Still stalled, I make a friend. We'll split a cab uptown if ever we are freed. I think of my date, there by the fountain, phoneless in the cold.
7:18 pm: A horde of rambunctious men at the front of our car busts open the subway door. We funnel out like rats, the rest behind us in the tube.
7:23 pm: I cajole the glass-half-empty cab driver: suck it up and get me to Lincoln Center. He seems to respond to the words, "big tip." It takes us five minutes to make it to Houston, but then he, reluctant, speeds up the West Side Highway in a godsent traffic reprieve.
7:32 pm: I run across the plaza, scarf trailing, fling myself into the arms of a tall and red-scarved Scotsman, who takes nothing but delight in my story and buys me Malbec.
8 pm: Curtain. We are lost in Debussy, in each other. In the crystal chandeliers at intermission.
10:16 pm: Second intermission. We share the sandwiches he has brought, gaze at women in elaborate hats.
12 am: Midnight wine and chat. He twiddles my Claddagh in his hand. I look down as he rights it, my heart no longer open to the village boys.
2:09 am: Last-called and thwarted by trains, adventures on the L to Bushwick.
4:10 am: Two cups of chamomile, kissing in the kitchen, and the flipping through of books.
4:13 am: A herd of roommates descends, across the threshold in a cloud of smoke, bearing bulging grocery bags and buoyant conversation. Cheap beer and the chopping of onions ensues. They've heard so much about me.
5:00 am: Impromptu dinner party, pasta puttanesca, the window glowing Maxfield Parrish blue. My philosopher is Jack, his roommate chef a Ginsberg if ever one I've met.
7:15 am: Bundled up in borrowed jumpers on the roof, his arms around my waist. We watch the sunrise turn the skyline salmon pink.
Saturday.
12:3o pm: Assembled company convenes for cucumber and cheese on bread, we squeeze six into one SUV and drive. The sun sparkles white on the world, and cold.
1:41 pm: Silent film screenings.
2:57 pm: Robert Rauschenberg at Gagosian, we stroll through Chelsea arm in arm.
4:30 pm: Back in Brooklyn, a wee snooze. He rubs my feet, I butcher Neruda en español.
1:15 am: No hot water, I commute to shower and dress again for dancing. The elevator opens at Nocturne, the world is warmer. A wink.
3:17 am: We dance the final four, his lips a benediction on my brow.
Sunday.
4:08 pm: Afternoon tango practice. He welcomes me with tea.
7:30 pm: Flea markets on forgotten avenues, a boxed feast from Whole Foods salad bar, the comparing of family Christmases.
9:26 pm: Barstool of a tapas bar, coffee and the crossword, his arm around my back, his forehead to my cheek.
10:30 pm: More dancing. More winks across the room.
12:38 pm: Fancy a hot shower? he says.
1:37 am: Alan's solo venture bolognese bubbling on the stove. A bottle of Korbel, a talk about art.
3:36 am: I set an alarm for never, Pushkin stories by my Scottish furnace.
Monday.
9:30 pm: A wee whiskey before the Black Swan, with Alan and his date.
10:37 pm: His hand on my knee the whole way through.
1 am: Mulled wine at a bluegrass bar. Status of the moon: still mostly white.
2:12 am: Apres gin and tater tots, the moon has gone half dark. We retrace our steps down the windy road.
3:45 am: The moon turns red. Hot apple cider, a bonfire in a garden bar, lanterns twinkling under stars.
6:30 am: We sleep, we smell of woodsmoke, that is all.
3 pm: My first proper date with the philosopher. Simon Rattle's debut at the Met: Pelleas et Mellisande at eight. I am to meet him at seven by the fountain, for an aperitif. I think, I am Cher.
6:04 pm: On the F train to Manhattan, in wool tights and big girl heels, I listen to Christmas Adagios.
6:16 pm: Transfering to the C, I check my eye makeup. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
6:19 pm: A screech, the train lurches, we stop.
6:47pm: Nosed two doors deep into the Spring Street station, the natives grow restless, shifting weight from foot to foot and sighing at their watches, their cell phones.
6:58 pm: Still stalled, I make a friend. We'll split a cab uptown if ever we are freed. I think of my date, there by the fountain, phoneless in the cold.
7:18 pm: A horde of rambunctious men at the front of our car busts open the subway door. We funnel out like rats, the rest behind us in the tube.
7:23 pm: I cajole the glass-half-empty cab driver: suck it up and get me to Lincoln Center. He seems to respond to the words, "big tip." It takes us five minutes to make it to Houston, but then he, reluctant, speeds up the West Side Highway in a godsent traffic reprieve.
7:32 pm: I run across the plaza, scarf trailing, fling myself into the arms of a tall and red-scarved Scotsman, who takes nothing but delight in my story and buys me Malbec.
8 pm: Curtain. We are lost in Debussy, in each other. In the crystal chandeliers at intermission.
10:16 pm: Second intermission. We share the sandwiches he has brought, gaze at women in elaborate hats.
12 am: Midnight wine and chat. He twiddles my Claddagh in his hand. I look down as he rights it, my heart no longer open to the village boys.
2:09 am: Last-called and thwarted by trains, adventures on the L to Bushwick.
4:10 am: Two cups of chamomile, kissing in the kitchen, and the flipping through of books.
4:13 am: A herd of roommates descends, across the threshold in a cloud of smoke, bearing bulging grocery bags and buoyant conversation. Cheap beer and the chopping of onions ensues. They've heard so much about me.
5:00 am: Impromptu dinner party, pasta puttanesca, the window glowing Maxfield Parrish blue. My philosopher is Jack, his roommate chef a Ginsberg if ever one I've met.
7:15 am: Bundled up in borrowed jumpers on the roof, his arms around my waist. We watch the sunrise turn the skyline salmon pink.
Saturday.
12:3o pm: Assembled company convenes for cucumber and cheese on bread, we squeeze six into one SUV and drive. The sun sparkles white on the world, and cold.
1:41 pm: Silent film screenings.
2:57 pm: Robert Rauschenberg at Gagosian, we stroll through Chelsea arm in arm.
4:30 pm: Back in Brooklyn, a wee snooze. He rubs my feet, I butcher Neruda en español.
1:15 am: No hot water, I commute to shower and dress again for dancing. The elevator opens at Nocturne, the world is warmer. A wink.
3:17 am: We dance the final four, his lips a benediction on my brow.
Sunday.
4:08 pm: Afternoon tango practice. He welcomes me with tea.
7:30 pm: Flea markets on forgotten avenues, a boxed feast from Whole Foods salad bar, the comparing of family Christmases.
9:26 pm: Barstool of a tapas bar, coffee and the crossword, his arm around my back, his forehead to my cheek.
10:30 pm: More dancing. More winks across the room.
12:38 pm: Fancy a hot shower? he says.
1:37 am: Alan's solo venture bolognese bubbling on the stove. A bottle of Korbel, a talk about art.
3:36 am: I set an alarm for never, Pushkin stories by my Scottish furnace.
Monday.
9:30 pm: A wee whiskey before the Black Swan, with Alan and his date.
10:37 pm: His hand on my knee the whole way through.
1 am: Mulled wine at a bluegrass bar. Status of the moon: still mostly white.
2:12 am: Apres gin and tater tots, the moon has gone half dark. We retrace our steps down the windy road.
3:45 am: The moon turns red. Hot apple cider, a bonfire in a garden bar, lanterns twinkling under stars.
6:30 am: We sleep, we smell of woodsmoke, that is all.
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3 comments:
Your life is pretty much a fairy-tale these days aint it?
Merry Christmas pretty.
Damn, you kinda make me want to date again.
Merry Christmas, G. Sounds like you're having a lovely time of it. :)
holy shit.
:)
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