“i’m literally melting over you,” messages john from tinder. he’s a leo at six foot five inches with short but shaggy brown hair, a handsome but unremarkable face, and an athletic build. he went to penn state and works some sort of c-suite job. one of his hobbies is volleyball, which, personally, i hate, but can let slide. my profile is not very sexy so i know he’s a liar. i guess i’ll let that slide too. i don’t think we’re actually compatible and don’t respond to his message. sorry, john.
browsing further, i see a couple of guys i know from the hudson valley. i’ve flirted with both of them in the past and would consider them nice dudes. one of them is artsy and doesn’t wash his hair very often. he collects records and rare books and has a radio show. the other is punk and loves blondes. he bartended at a place that has good korean food and hit on me for a long time before i agreed to go on a date with him. he drove out to where i was living at the time and brought me to a nearby restaurant, which was having some sort of event and it took a million years for our food to come. we had good conversation though, and were entertained by the police presence down the road as there was also an active shooter on the run. i brought him back to my house and we drank wine and smoked some cigarettes and talked about how i really want kids and he doesn’t as helicopters hovered overhead, searching for the, i imagined, long-gone perp. he left sometime after midnight, longing for something from me i wasn’t apt to give him, and we more or less lost contact. i moved, briefly, to california, a few days later.
“well well well” i write him on the app. “well well well,” he responds. we send a handful of messages to catch up and he invites me to a new argentinian restaurant he’s bartending at in the west village. i tell him i’ll stop by in the coming weeks and that it’ll be sweet to see a familiar face.
i think flirting with me must be a headache. frustrating but fun. exciting but hardly rewarding.
maybe it’s because i’m picky. maybe it’s because i have some long-buried insecurity that keeps me from being vulnerable enough to let people in. my explore page would say it’s because i’m gemini moon, gemini venus. all about the thrill of the game, easily bored… flighty.
“i’m going to try to be more promiscuous,” i said to the woman i love last week as we sat on her deck upstate, smoking cigarettes and drinking our favorite rosé.
“yeah, baby,” she said. “get your pussy out there.”
it’s nauseating to think about. i don’t typically seek casual sex but figure maybe i’ll try it a few times and see what happens. i’m back in new york now and about as single as i’ve ever been. could be cool. could also make me feel empty inside, which, really, wouldn’t be so bad either. i can throw away the idea if i don’t like it and get back to my favorite type of relationship – weird, serendipitous and, in some tortured way, written in the stars.
back in the city, the train runs, underground, beneath my apartment, and i feel it rumble ever so slightly while i lay on the couch. i make a high-fiber, high-protein salad because i read recently the gut microbiome loves fiber and americans don’t get nearly enough of it. the salad has chickpeas and farro and tomato and feta. basil, arugula, shallot, nearly a cup of fresh dill and lots of kalamatas dressed in lemon juice and olive oil and white wine vinegar. it’s delicious.
i put the leftovers away in a tupperware that isn’t mine and think about how glad i am so much of what’s in this new-to-me space belongs to someone else. it’s perfect in almost every way. the off-white wall color is my favorite and the pink, art deco trim is thick and feminine. there are mirrors and plants in all the right places and the ceilings are sky-high. energy moves easily through each room and i can see out onto the street at people passing by from where i sit at my desk. it’s romantic and airy and i can’t wait to have friends visit.
i spend a few nights in brooklyn between being upstate, where j- and let nearly two weeks pass lounging around her property. we write and make salads and tomato toasts and have a glass of wine in the early evenings. it rains at some point almost every day. her house is everything i like and nothing i don’t. she has immaculate taste – all of her furniture is old and worn and well-made. we share the same eye for color and shape and texture and she has the resources for a curated collection of art and books and lamps and trinkets. there’s a big, timber frame barn down a stone path where i put some of my plants and they thrive in a way they never did in the dry, cold air of my apartment in duluth. j- and i start working out in there in the afternoons. she does a mostly functional routine while i lift weights and deep stretch. we take turns jumping rope. my dog sleeps under a big willow in the yard. the mosquitos are relentless, which is the only downside. their onslaught a small price to pay for this kind of living.
we host a party and invite our favorite friends – painters and podcasters and therapists and poets. we buy a new grill and i set it up and cook sausages and vegetables as people start to arrive. the evening is by far one of the best i’ve had in a long time. conversation and wine and good food flow late into the night and at some point j- brings out a carrot cake she made for my belated birthday. it’s perfectly spiced with a thick vanilla frosting piled on top. we all have a piece before turning in and i wake up the next day feeling lucky and inspired.
i joke that we’re living a more sane version of grey gardens and laugh hard when j- wraps her t-shirt around her head and does an impression of little edie. hours pass and the sun moves from one side of the house to the other while i start a new manuscript and j- plugs away at her screenplay.
i work for three days at nina’s shop on warren street and chat out front with friends i haven’t seen in a long time. i float through the weekend and make small talk with customers as they move about the store. it’s the most social i’ve been in a year and it’s both fulfilling and exhausting. sales are good and i’m tired at the end of each day. i open tinder and see a dozen or so unread messages then close it again without looking at them. i’m not in the mood and my mind quickly drifts elsewhere. sunday comes and a loneliness creeps in, one that’s tender and wise, and, for a moment, i miss duluth and the lake and the familiar, sweet scent of a longtime lover.
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