Yesterday I was in a cafe where a woman I went to college with was sitting across the room from me, the girl I named the female antagonist in my book after.
I wondered if I would talk to her; she clearly remembered me because she looked up at me and when I was seated she walked across the cafe to obtain the key from the counter, making sure that I saw her as she proceeded to walk to the bathroom without wearing a bra and shit, which is what she must have done since it took her so long to come back and sit down again to draw; unless, of course, she spent the time after she pissed fixing her hair and reapplying her makeup, though, no, she didn’t bring a bag with her, and unless she had pocket makeup she didn’t fix herself up, she’s not that kind of person anyway, the kind of person being that kind who wants to impress a former courtier seven years after the fact; rather, she’s the kind who would rub off her makeup to lessen that former courtier’s desire, to show simply that she could care less about said courtier; but what’s strangest about this scenario, an actual reason I didn’t talk to her, was that it might have been her twin sister, with whom I never had any relationship, but whom I knew from around campus, though that was really just a pragmatic reason that I told myself took precedence on the list of reasons for not wanting to talk to her, whereas in reality, the real reason was that if I didn’t say hello, I would be better able to retain the fantasy of my approaching her, including what I might have said, whether I might make a faux pas, stutter, or otherwise display my anxiety.
It might have gone something like this: “Hey,” pause for her to look up and acknowledge what I had brought to be bear; namely, that I, who courted her when we were sophomores in college, who helped her get her an A on our science project, who sent her a friend request and had to wait days for her to respond despite the fact that I’d seen her in class that week, am now also living in Bushwick, that I’ve been living her for years in fact, which I’d imply with my casual familiarity, that ‘you come here often’ look I’d give her with my eyebrows slightly raised, eyelids heavy with disdain, to which she would reply with a half-smile of noncommittal intrigue, “Hey.”
I’d counter, “Is your name Lexi,” to show both that it’s been so long that her breasts have begun to sag and that I may not remember her name, and also, that I knew she had a sister, and that her value as a human was easily confused with her identical twin, making her thereby less of an individual, and less important to me, but unblinking, she’d say, ‘Yeah,’ and smile, because she’d appreciate my coming to see her from across the cafe, and I’d slide onto the leather stool across from her, having received that confirmation, only to realize that it might have been better to keep standing because by now her mouth is pursed like spoiled fruit and I felt an overwhelming pressure to begin, to say something that wouldn’t bore her, to define the purpose of my arriving here and sitting across from her, to show what exactly?—that I recognized her, surely more, surely it must be a relic of a former infatuation if I’m sitting down, since we were almost friends, since that day we walked to Broome Street together and smoked Marlboro 27s and I felt extraordinarily cool and attractive for walking next to her as though I might be her boyfriend, since that was something at least, at least until I told her I didn’t know who Animal Collective was, thereby undoing every coolness that I’d built up to that point. Since that had happened however, so long ago, she would know that by my being here again, sitting across from her, that all the power was in her court, that I after all, was the one to show up at her table to probably try to flirt, which she would be slightly displeased by, and so, sensing this, I would say, you live around here and she’d say, yeah, and I’d press, where, and she’d give the cross-streets of a place nearby, a place I wouldn’t have expected her to live, but which would be sufficient to, or better than my own apartment simply based on location, which I would obligingly reveal the location of and try to smile at, to show her that I was by no means proud but modest, but she would continue to be unimpressed, and to not even be concerned with what I thought of her apartment because all that mattered was that she be comfortable in her dwelling, which she would convey in how she brushed hair back from her ear and looked away so I could see her sublime chin and throat, before sensing that she was crushing me when she turned back to look me directly in the eyes, and then, being aware of being boring, I would walk away, preceded by a goodbye and a ‘see you around’ thrown in casually but bearing a trace of libido, further confirming her opinion of me as pathetic, demonstrated by a vague silence in the cafe before me as I return to my seat, and everyone around gained the understanding that this beautiful girl, though in decline, was warding off yet another suitor, and that I, sexually frustrated and dressed all in black to hide an emerging potbelly, was batting way out of my league with that approach; yet I, full of confidence in the past that we had shared, I would return to my seat and open my book, read half a page pretending to have comprehended it fast and proficiently while in reality having understood absolutely nothing, and while I returned to the top of the page to take in what I had missed, the color in my face would rise in embarrassment for having been proud and it would take another few minutes for me to settle into my groove, to feel comfortable about how things had turned out, for being happy that I was brave enough to approach her, even though she hadn’t been exactly nice, friendly sure, but not exactly nice, and recalling this as a capstone in my career with this girl, I would forget about her and resume my ‘work’.
And the joy of writing that, wasn’t that better than ACTUALLY talking to her and seeing what might have happened? Because in reality I just sat there, going about my ‘work’ and throwing a casual glance in her direction to admire her sublime chin, until finally on a whim, having felt like I’d been there too long, and also out of response to the hunger pains in my stomach, I abruptly closed my iPad, sending my former classmate a mental message that if she did live around here, I would invariably see her again, that being the nature of Bushwick, and continued to walk cooly into the descending evening, the sun still warm as it moved behind the buildings at the end of the long industrial road, helping me feel like I deserved a treat, so I bought some Thuycidides and a Kombucha before coming home and settling into a long evening of quiet domesticity and frenzied confusion, self-doubt, and occasional self-loathing.
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