this is my 22nd chapter

When my 50something neighbor invited herself to my co-worker’s Valentine’s Day party, I didn’t have high expectations.

Honestly, we hardly knew each other, I hardly knew Gary, and we both would be, by far, the oldest guests at the party. So I figured we’d get some strange looks and leave after an hour.

But when we didn’t get home until 2am, and three guys at the party asked for Donna’s number, and I ripped my pants from dancing, I remembered how surprising life can really be.

Maybe it’s because we were nearly 10-30 years older than most of the people at the party, or that we were the two wearing red in a crowd of 20-30somethings dressed in black. Or maybe it’s because Gary and Jane (her stage name, she revealed, is Donna), had everyone dancing within the first hour – but the party became about us.

Most of all, it became about Jane.

I didn’t know she’s an actress, but she took hold of the dance floor like a concert stage, twirling and dragging any person lining the perimeter of the living room into her own, tiny circle of uninhibitedness. She was sweating and laughing, amused by my own attempt to move my legs in what could resemble coordination and rhythm. That was when I ripped my pants. It was by the knee, so it was fine. They were old.

Gary: Where did you meet her?

Me: Across the hall. Jane’s my neighbor. I told you that when we came in.

Gary: Oh, oh yeah. Yeah.

He took a big gulp of his sixth beer and leaned in.

Gary: Are you guys, like, together or something?

I knew he’d ask.

Me: No, no. She’s simply my neighbor, she invited herself, we’re here as friends.

Gary: “Friends.”

Me: Friends.

And then he ate a brownie off the plate beside him and pointed across the room to a serious, late20something guy standing against the wall of the living room, shoveling a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth.

Gary: Cool, because he’s asking about her.

Me: What?

Gary pointed to a 30something guy in the kitchen drinking expensive champagne out of a Solo cup.

Gary: And so is his friend, but he doesn’t know that.

Me: Wow.

Gary: Yeah, you don’t mind, right? I mean, she’s pretty awesome. I’m sorry my friends are lame, in comparison to her.

Me: No, I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s single. She can do whatever she wants, really.

Gary: Cool. Have you met my friend Amy? She dated my ex, but she’s cool.

And before I could answer, he dragged me into the foyer where a very trendy, glossy-looking girl stood with her jacket in her hands and her eyes on her phone.

Gary: This is Doug. He’s awesome. Talk to him.

Amy: I’m leaving, Gary. I’m getting up early tomorrow.

Gary: Oh, just chill for once.

Then Gary walked away and left me with the girl who wanted nothing to do with me.

Me: If you wanna go, you can go… I don’t wanna make you–

Amy: Oh, really? Okay, cool.

And then she started actually walking out.

Me: Or, wait, you can stay or something for a second. Just because we’ve never met before.

And then she turned around and looked at me like I was some lost five-year-old in a shopping mall, hiding under a table in the men’s department.

Amy: Are you single or something.

Me: Yeah, I am, I mean, I’d imagine most people at this party are.

Amy: Yeah, I’m not really looking to date.

Me: Okay. Then why did you come here?

Amy: Because I’m friends with Gary, and I’m sick of Netflix.

Me: Okay, I get it.

And then we just stood there.

Amy: How do you know him.

Me: We work together at the firm.

Amy: Oh. Cool.

“Finance” is so hit-or-miss with women. Some see dollar signs, and some see a sell-out. Both are right, really.

Amy: Yeah, I don’t really date finance guys.

Me: Really. Why?

Amy: Cause they’re boring and traditional and shallow, usually.

Me: Well what do you do?

Amy: I’m an editor, cover nightlife and restaurants. I’m just not really looking to date.

Me: Alright then, that’s fine, that’s fine. Have a good night.

So then I turned around and walked back into the living room, grabbing a beer. I was about to call Jane over when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Amy: So if you want my number, you can have it. I will give it to you.

Me: But you’re not looking to date or anything.

Amy: Yeah, but I need to get out more. Where’s your phone.

I took out my phone and she gave me her number.

Me: I’m very boring and traditional and shallow, though. We’ll have an awful time.

Amy: Yeah, well, that’s nothing new.

And then she turned around and walked out. Women are confusing.

One hour later and Jane and I were riding the elevator back up to the eighth floor, exhausted.

Jane: I’m proud of you, Doug.

Me: Because I danced?

Jane: Yes. And when I invited myself to your friend’s party, you didn’t say no. I didn’t expect you to do that.

Me: I didn’t have a choice, really.

Jane: You hardly knew me and I’m so much older than you and your nice friends, but you still let me come to the party. It says a lot about you. It says a lot about your character.

Me: Perhaps.

Jane: It does.

Me: Or maybe it just means I could use a friend.

She laughed and smiled.

Jane: Everyone could.

And then she said goodnight, and walked into her apartment.

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.”

chapter 11: two words

When life picks you up and smacks you down, like flipping a waffle, it’s easy to forget one thing: you always get what you want.

And the question is: do you still want it when you finally get it?

Our wants take time to develop, developing in the early-morning or late-night hours, when our hopes arise. When I announced last week that it’s “time to make things interesting” – things actually got interesting. And like all wants, this one emerged in the very last, late-night hours of the final day of the week.

Saturday night, I had high hopes for a night of pizza-pie digestion and watching Elf. But when I emerged from my apartment to grab chips and a Pepsi at the bodega down the street, I ran into Eleanor.

Eleanor: Doug! It’s been ages.

Me: It’s good to see you. Welcome back.

Eleanor: I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other these past couple of weeks.

Me: I thought you were away?

Eleanor: Yeah, I got back about a week ago. Week and a half ago? It feels good.

This didn’t feel good to me. She’d been down the hall all this time and didn’t think to say hi?

Me: How was your Thanksgiving?

Eleanor: As good as it could be.

Me: I’m sorry about Gremlin.

Eleanor: If only dogs could stick around longer, you know?

A pause settled for a bit in the hallway, as I heard music blasting.

Eleanor: I’m actually having some friends over tonight. Want to join? Or were you headed out.

Me: Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere. Was just getting food.

Eleanor: Well, then come over.

So I went.

For a moment, I debated hanging out with a bunch of 25-year-olds all night, but I hadn’t seen Eleanor in weeks and, to my delight, her friends are mostly in their 30s. She actually cleaned up her place. It looked good – and so did she.

Her friends, definitely a good-looking bunch, were full of designers and accountants and strategists and some other finance folk. I avoided the small talk with those guys. I don’t know enough about it all.

And I watched Eleanor’s stare, who she settled on most, spoke the longest to, touched at all. There was one guy in particular who she lingered on and danced playfully with. Is he who she’s been spending the past two weeks with? What does this guy have that I don’t?

I imagined them grabbing coffees together at the shop across the street in the morning, sweat drying on their faces after hours of early-morning sex in her shower and on her couch. Then I imagined her naked, sprawled on her bed. Then I hated myself for it.

So, we all took shots of cinnamon whisky, igniting fiery pits of hell in our stomaches, and went to two loud bars, where we had disjointed conversations about the effects of Instagram on our social lives and the slushy snow outside. Basic stuff.

Eleanor checked in with me every now and then, and at times I watched her eyes flicker over to mine. I compared my hope – that she’d devote her whole night to laughing and drinking and catching up with me – to my reality (me standing in the corner, occasionally chiming in when I could hear the conversation), and it really sucked.

But as the night wore on, the circle of friends began to shed, and by 1am, it was just Eleanor, me, That Guy, and three other friends. I wanted to turn to That Guy and say, “I’m in it to win it. Scram.” But then he’d probably punch me and sleep with her on spite, so I stayed quiet.

Eleanor: What’s next?

Friend 1: Hookah bar.

Friend 2: Gay bar.

Friend 3: Pizza.

Gotta love New York.

That Guy: I have to wake up early. Think I’m gonna head home.

Good. The guy can’t handle a fun night out.

Eleanor: Aw, really? But it’s only one.

That Guy: Training for the triathlon.

Typical.

Eleanor: Get home safe.

She gave him a big hug and he squeezed her way too hard and too long, and I hated him for it.

Then, like a Jenga tower, all the friends followed suit, falling out of the late-night plans swiftly.

Moments later, it was just Eleanor and I.

We stepped out of the bar and into the slushy street, facing our building and the Hudson River mere blocks away. Her eyes flickered over to mine, and I felt my stomach do a small flip. Just like a waffle.

Eleanor: So.

Me: So.

We looked at each other and laughed. I was intoxicated.

Eleanor: Where to, Douglas?

I looked up at our building and the skyscrapers beyond. Then, two words popped out that had a life of their own.

Me: Empire State.

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.