chapter 21: valentine’s day

I’m a single, 40-year-old guy and what can I say: I like Valentine’s Day.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been single for a couple of years and I feel so far away from it all, but I like to examine the couples as they walk the streets with packaged flowers and boxed chocolates: some couples look like one another, dressed in the same style of t-shirts and jeans, and some are absolute opposites which is why they could work.

But then there are the odd couples: the mismatched twosome. Like pairing mayonnaise with peanut butter on a whole-wheat sandwich. But in their own little world, I guess it works.

My Valentine’s Day started out tame.

I wore a red tie and purple shirt to work. No one dressed up. I felt like the inside of a Hallmark card.

But after lunch, my co-worker Gary invited me to a Valentine’s Day party: he’s younger and just recently went through a tough break-up with a girl he called “so crazy” that he “won’t even talk about it.”

When I got home that night and rode the elevator to the eighth floor, I thought about Eleanor and what she’s doing tonight.

I imagined knocking on her door and her having trouble opening it, as dozens of red petals and bouquets of long-stemmed roses and tulips from various suitors tumbled out, bursting from the doorway.

“Oh, sorry!” she’d say with a laugh. “It’s just that time of year again.”

I lingered in the hallway, key in hand, contemplating knocking on her door, until I heard a voice.

“Hello, Doug.”

I turned around: it was the woman I met in the hallway the night Eleanor and I ate the brownie.

Me: Donna, hi, good to see you.

Donna: Are you lost?

She stared at me, unwaveringly. I felt my face flushing.

Me: No no, I’m just… debating grabbing food. Just got home.

She stood there in that same red robe, looking like the painting above Eleanor’s bed, but a little bit older. Was she wearing anything under there?

Donna: No romantic dinner planned?

Me: No not me, just taking it easy tonight.

She turned her head, examining me like I imagine I do the couples on Valentine’s Day.

Donna: How old are you, Doug.

Me: 40.

Donna: So you’re young, but you’re not that young.

Thank you?

Donna: Why are you alone.

This wasn’t exactly the conversation I wanted to have on a Friday night, on Valentine’s Day, in the middle of our hallway.

I mean, I could say that it’s because I don’t have my life in order yet and that’s not very attractive, because I have a high standard for chemistry, because I’ve been hibernating all season-long, because I have low self-esteem and confidence, or I could say—

Me: Haven’t met the right person yet.

That could be true, too. But I sensed she wasn’t buying it.

Me: Well, have you?

Donna: I have. But he’s not here anymore.

Oh man, I felt bad. Like a criminal. Like I just ran off with her jewelry and her soul, or something.

Me: Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry.

Donna: He moved to Paris.

Me: Okay then.

And then we just stood there. Like we were stuck in traffic.

Me: So what are you going to do tonight?

Donna: I’m debating getting something to eat. And you?

Me: Well, my co-worker invited me to a party. So I think I’m gonna go.

Donna: That sounds lovely.

Me: Yeah, I mean, it’ll be okay.

And then she took a step forward, walking under a light in the hallway, and that’s when I realized: she’s definitely not wearing anything under there.

Donna: I’ll join.

What?

Me: The party?

Donna: Yes, I’ll put some clothes on. I’m coming with you.

And just like that, on this Valentine’s night, we became one of “the odd couples.”

this is my 16th chapter

It came at the strangest of times: a note, pushed swiftly under my door.

On Thursday, having returned from work around midnight  – my head spinning with numbers and emails and traffic lights – I sat awake on my bed, eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling. I considered masturbating, but was too tired. You know how it goes.

And then I heard a “swoosh” coming from 10-feet-away, a tiny pocket of white by the door.

Eleanor. It’d been weeks. I could even hear her say “Douglas.” The one moment I wasn’t thinking of her, she swoops right in. Isn’t that how it always works.

So then I considered ignoring the note, but then I thought of Doug ’14, and how it would be such a better “show” to actually see what was going on next-door.

So I went.

Eleanor: Wow. You’re actually awake.

Me: You’re actually alive.

Eleanor: I’ve been busy. You could have just knocked on my door, you know.

Me: Well, I’ve been busy, too. Really busy.

Eleanor: Good. How’s work and everything?

Me: It’s fine, the same. Just working a lot.

Eleanor: Yeah, same.

Me: So this is what you wanted to talk about at 3am?

Then she got quiet for a moment, and I wondered if she was going to shut the door or shutdown again.

Eleanor: I wanted to see how you are. It’s been a while since we hung out, and I was looking at the Empire State from my window tonight and thinking, “Douglas, I wonder how he is.”

Then she turned around and invited me in, and I realized she was wearing a scarf, and her jacket was splayed on the couch. We sat.

Me: Did you just get back from somewhere?

Eleanor: Yeah, I went to a friend’s art exhibit and then we went for drinks after.

Me: How was it?

Eleanor: Just bad, really bad stuff. But I told her it was great, of course. That’s what friends do.

Me: When’s your exhibit?

Eleanor: Mine? Who knows. When I’m dead, maybe? Posthumously hanging at the Guggenheim, like all great works of art.

Me: Don’t say that. Your stuff is really good, really different. You could go somewhere.

Eleanor: Blah, blah, blah, so could you, if you believed it yourself.

Then she got up and walked the two feet to her kitchen counter, unwrapping an aluminum-covered dish. Three brownies were inside.

Eleanor: Want one?

Me: You made these?

Eleanor: No, but my friend said they’re delicious. Have one.

She gave me a long stare as I reached for the brownie, like I, too, was an art exhibit.

Me: What.

Eleanor: Nothing, just eat it. They’re organic, you’re fine.

Me: Aren’t you gonna have one?

She grabs for one and keeps staring at me.

Me: Go ahead.

Eleanor: You first.

And that’s when it hit me.

Me: I’m not doing this right now. No way.

Eleanor: Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.

Me: Have you ever had one of these? You’re gonna feel like you died and the ground is spaghetti. You won’t even be able to recognize me.

Eleanor: Yeah, right. I’ll be fine.

She pops an entire brownie in her mouth.

Me: Are you crazy? You know how strong that’s gonna be?

Eleanor: It’s only one, calm down.

Me: You don’t know what you’re doing.

Eleanor: Who are you, my dad? I know, I’m “so young and stupid” etcetera etcetera. You’re only, what, 10 years older than me?

Me: 15, actually.

Eleanor: You’re 40? Really? Did you tell me that? You look a lot younger. Maybe because you don’t have a wife or kids or anything.

Me: And are you my parents? Maybe I’ll just go back to bed, or hang myself, or something.

Eleanor: That’s not what I meant. It was a compliment, come on.

Me: Well I just meant that half is all you need.

Eleanor: You’re an expert at weed. Weed and movie-writing, aren’t you. What else don’t I know about you.

Me: I’m not a stoner, and I’m not really a writer, either. I don’t know what I am.

Eleanor: Doug the mystery neighbor.

Me: You’re the one who disappears for weeks and shuts down on a date.

Eleanor: A date, really? Surprise. It was a date.

Me: Or something like it. You knew what it was.

Eleanor: How would I know? You don’t make a move.

Me: You’re confusing…really confusing. I don’t know what you want.

Eleanor: I want you to eat this brownie.

And then she smirked a little bit, in that way women do when they’re tipsy and very sure of themselves.

Eleanor: You really don’t know what you are?

Me: Do you?

Eleanor: No. But if you eat this brownie, I’ll tell you what you are. To me, at least.

We locked eyes and I felt that chemistry I saw between a couple months ago. That warmth, when all the molecules start moving and slowly raising the temperature.

Me: Deal.

And so, I ate it.

my sixth chapter

So after Eleanor left, I rinsed the wine glasses and worked out.

The gym I go to is on a corner, and the front of it is all windows, facing a busy avenue full of traffic and dimly-lit restaurants. Sometimes, when I’m lifting weights at night, I like to look out the window at the couples sitting in the restaurants, drinking cocktails and laughing over dishes of guacamole or bruschetta. I wonder how long they’ve known each other, what they’re talking about, if they’ve had sex, if they’re happy. And then, when I start to worry that they can see me watching, I turn and face the other way.

Yesterday, my mom and dad visited. They saw the wine glasses in the sink and asked if I’ve become an alcoholic. When I told them I had a friend over, they were skeptical. Sometimes my mom likes to rub it in that most of my friends are married with kids and, thereby, too busy to spend time with me. This was one of those times.

I debated telling them about Eleanor. About how nice and attractive I think she is. How she’s a graphic designer but also a painter, and how she takes the stairs on weekends.

But then I’d have to tell them that she lives across the hall, and then they’d probably call me ‘lazy.’ Because only the laziest person in the world dates the girl across the hall.

I’m really not lazy, though. I keep my eyes open for someone new. I like to observe people when I’m out to eat with friends, and when I’m at a party or other social function, I do talk to women. Sometimes they talk back.

When people ask why I haven’t met someone yet, I used to say that I’m too busy pursuing The Arts and living at home with my parents. But now that I’ve moved out and gotten a job, I think I’ve got to think of a new response.

Maybe I’ll say ‘chemistry.’

Chemistry is one of the hardest things to find. There’s a warmth to it, you know? I really believe the temperature rises between two people when they’re talking and have chemistry. It’s like all the molecules in the room sense what’s happening between these two people, and so they zoom over to witness and marvel at what’s taking place.

When I see couples embracing in the street, I smile, because I remember that warm feeling. Sometimes I want to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that this is what they’ll never forget. But that would be intrusive.

Most of all, I think I’d like to thank them. Because when they’re standing there together, I swear that, for a moment, that feeling that they feel passes along to me, and I feel it, too. It comes rushing back. And just when I’ve had a moment to savor it and let it really warm me up, it quickly disappears, and I keep on walking.