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.
thesaintgermain 