Being in a woman’s apartment is a very peculiar thing. There are only three reasons a single, 40-year-old man would ever find himself in a single woman’s apartment: 1. he is going to sleep with her 2. he is hoping he’ll sleep with her or 3. he is plumbing her toilet.
With the exception of number two, I am unsure which is happening between Eleanor and I. Sitting on her couch, with a view of the Empire State Building, it felt like we fast-forwarded several dates. And yet, glancing at her her unmade, ruffled bed, the tilted artwork, and the crumbs on her kitchen counter, I am pretty sure there’s a clogged drain somewhere in that studio that’s in need of cleaning. But you can never be too sure.
Eleanor: What are you thinking about?
Me: What do you mean?
Eleanor: You just got quiet there.
Me: Oh. I got distracted by your art.
She smiled and looked up at the painting hanging above her bed. It’s of a woman with a very small head on a half-exposed body, sitting in a robe at a small kitchen table. She’s holding a glass of water with lemon, and peering out.
Me: Did you make this?
Eleanor: Yeah, last year. For a class.
Me: It’s beautiful.
Eleanor: Thanks.
Me: What is it of?
Eleanor: A woman, in a kitchen.
Me: What’s she thinking?
Eleanor: I don’t know.
It surprised me that she didn’t know. Aren’t artists supposed to have intent? But then I thought of the Mona Lisa. Can Da Vinci explain her smile?
Me: She’s a mystery.
Eleanor: I guess. Or maybe she is just confused.
Me: Confusion is mysterious.
Eleanor: It is.
Then we sat in silence. It felt heavy, and I had to make it stop.
Me: Hey, have you been to that new Italian spot across the street?
Eleanor: The one with all the noise?
Me: Yeah.
Eleanor: Nope, I haven’t been yet.
Me: Want to go?
Eleanor: Now?
Me: Sometime. Next week? When I haven’t ordered Thai.
Eleanor: Yeah, let’s do that, that sounds fun.
She said it in a really nonchalant, very cool way that made me wonder if she was uninterested or trying to compensate for getting nervous. I do that, too, sometimes. I compensate.
Me: Great. Well, I’m glad I stopped by.
Eleanor: Me too.
Me: Have a good rest of the night, drying your clothes.
Eleanor: Good night.
Me: Good night.
She closed the door, and I walked five steps and opened and closed my door. After drinking some water, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and got into bed.
And I thought about the woman at the kitchen table. How she sits there above Eleanor’s bed, day and night, clutching that glass of water, and peering out. Maybe she’s confused. Perhaps she is mysterious. Or maybe she’s the luckiest painting in all of New York.
thesaintgermain 