When a Friday falls on the 1st or the 15th, it ideally means one thing: Payday Lunch with Shea. Today is a glorious Friday, so we decided to each pick up lunch and meet in Bryant Park.
“What’d you get?”
“The hummus and veggie sandwich from Prêt à Manger and a Diet Coke,” I say, holding up a small white paper bag printed with color photos of an apple and a red onion.
“But it’s payday. Why didn’t you get something good?”
“Well, what did you get?”
“Chinese buffet from 45th Street,”
“Gross.”
“You’re gross.”
“Haha, this dude at my office thinks I’m gross, for sure! I was eating some Ma Po congee for breakfast today and my coworker told me to ‘turn down the smell’.”
“Haha, well, in my office that is the smell of the morning…. Is this the same guy who had never heard of a burrito?”
“Yep, the very same. I got some clam soup yesterday, and he asked me what it was and i told him and he said, ‘What’s a clam?’”
Our heads are scanning the tables in unison, looking for two empty seats together.
“There!” I say, and our pace picks up.
“Yesssss, nice, we don’t have to sit at the student seats,” Shea says, dragging a New Orleans green outdoor cafe chair closer to a small round table.
“Haha, yeah, I hate those ‘desks’. The cup holders don’t work and they’re on an angle…”
“So what are you getting into this weekend….?”
“I dunno…. I’m kinda thinking that maybe I’ll be getting together with my ‘boring blogger’, as you refer to him.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I mean… I hope so…. We hung out last weekend.” I make eye contact with Shea and he gives me a knowing look. “What are you up to?”
“I dunno, band practice, Harv is coming up from Philly and crashing with us. Trying to keep it… loose.” His phone buzzes and he takes it out of his pocket, looks at the screen and silences the vibration. “Speak of the devil.”
“What?”
“I met up with Krissie last weekend, which was definitely a mistake.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m just…. Not trying to get into anything too heavy, and she’s been up my ass all week.”
“I see,” I say, thinking about the lack of correspondence from L.B.
***
9:57 p.m.
Blake peeks through the thick burgundy curtains over French doors that separate our bedrooms.
“Hey girl.”
“Hey B,” I say, turning away from my view of Clifford Place and my laptop screen.
“Whatcha doin’ tonight?”
“Mmmmm, purchasing a 70s Vintage FEATHER Print Hippie Dress KEYHOLE AWESOME, I guess.” I show her the eBay listing.
“Oooooh, lemme see!” Blake lowers herself onto my pink duvet, laying on her stomach, legs kicking back in the air.
“I dunno where I’m gonna wear it, but I think I’m about to win it for…. $12.99 plus shipping.”
“Excellent…. You always find the best eBay scores. So…. are you gonna hang out with L.B. this weekend?”
“Doesn’t seem like it thus far…. but I mean, maybe! Ya know…. What are you doing?”
“Mmmm, well, I totally have, like, a lot of dates,” she says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “Just kidding.”
“Well, I had lunch with Shea, and I am definitely not going to call L.B…. Especially since… He emailed me, and then I wrote back. So I have to leave it at that.”
“Yeah, do not reach out again. Um….. wanna go to Daddy’s later?”
deux mille six 