She frantically types on her laptop. Her fingers seem cartoon-like they’re moving so fast. Her face is serious, and her eyes never leave the computer screen. Handsome men walk past her, sometimes twice each in hopes of catching her eye. But her eyes never move. They hardly even blink. One man even gets brave enough to interrupt her.
“Excuse me? May I have the sugar?” He motions towards the community sugar pourer. He is hoping for more than just the sugar pourer. He yearns for the eye contact, a half smile/smirk even, and an introduction would be ideal.
“Yea, no problem.” She reaches behind her laptop, picks up the sugar pourer and hands it to the gentleman without once looking away from what she’s working on. In fact, she’s still typing just as fast, but with only one hand now.
He hesitates. “Thanks.” She doesn’t acknowledge his thanks or his presence. He looks crushed. And I wonder, why didn’t he ask for the sugar on my table? It’s not that I wanted him to, but I thought it was strange that she was clearly working hard on something and he had no problem interrupting her, and yet he didn’t even notice that I was in the room, and reading leisurely with an unused sugar pourer on my table as well.
Perhaps it is because I do not have long blonde hair as she did. Or that my eyes are not ice blue. Maybe I don’t appear as important as she does since I am not typing on a laptop on my coffee break as she appears to be doing. Maybe I don’t look single, though I am. Is it because I was not wearing any make-up? My suit was not as expensive as hers? Maybe it’s because my heels were only three and a half inches tall as opposed to her four inch heels.
King walks in and we share less than ten minutes of small talk before I ask him why he thinks that man didn’t ask me for the sugar. I love to know another person’s point of view and why it is that men do the things that they do. And King willingly shares his opinion.
“Dean, you have to understand that you’re not like most women.” He tells me something that I already know, so I just nod and await to hear more. “Men are very simple creatures.” I would love to agree whole-heartedly but something inside me tells me it’s not as simple as that, that there’s more to men than people, even other men, give them credit for. And still, he continues. “You are not what men would consider approachable.” I didn’t know how to take that. Was I being complimented or insulted?
“I don’t understand. I thought I was easier for men to approach because I am not like most women.”
“As much as men don’t want to admit it, they are instantly attracted to the women who appear to be high maintenance. But in the end there’s nothing there other than lust. You’re the kind of woman men can fall in love with. Because if men were given the opportunity to build their perfect woman, you would be it. You’re beautiful, and not the typical kind of beautiful. You’re the girl next door kind of beautiful but with the edge that men love. You have a fantastic sense of humor and a heart made of gold. You’re loyal, adventurous, and open-minded. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, incredibly talented and have so much potential.” He pauses, and I think it’s because he noticed that I blushed. “I just mean that you’re the kind of girl that men would love to bring home to Mom and marry, but someone to have fun with too. You’re the best friend and the lover, that’s rare. You look just as sexy in a short, little cocktail dress as you do in jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”
“Well, there is one. Like I said, you don’t appear to be high maintenance. Your nails are nice, but one solid color and they’re your’s. You don’t have highlights in your hair and you have no make-up on. Now, you don’t need it, but it sends a different kind of message to men. She’s over there typing like a madman, and while I don’t know her, I am willing to bet my life on it, that she has nothing more important to say than you do. That she’s probably not even half as smart or funny as you are. That she’s not as interesting or caring as you. And quite honestly, Dean, you’re sitting in a coffee house alone drinking a black tea with nothing in it reading the New York Times in a pant suit. I must say, that is a beautiful set though. Ann Taylor?”
“Yes. On sale!”
“I love it. I always tell you that winter white is your color; you need more of it in your wardrobe. Anyway, see how she’s wearing a pink suit? Much more feminine. Not that anything about your suit is masculine, because there isn’t. And actually, though she’s wearing a skirt and you’re wearing pants, you look better in your suit than she does in hers. I can tell she got hers on sale too, and it’s not the right size or a flattering cut on her. But most men don’t look into the clothes as much as I do. Her make-up is way too heavy and her hair needs to be dyed again if she wants to keep it blonde. Dark roots aren’t ‘in’ anymore. Again, there are only about 2% of straight men who notice those things. Including myself.”
I know that if I let him, he could go on forever. Since I don’t really have anything important to share with him during this lunch, I will just let him continue enjoying my tea and taking it all in.
“I know that you love tea and are not a coffee drinker. You love the Times and hate the Post. You would NEVER dye your hair blonde and wouldn’t dream of ordering a drink that takes 20 minutes to say. And because you’re sitting alone in a pant suit, you scream ‘feminist’.”
I am not a feminist. And if I were, there would be nothing wrong with it except that the average New York male feels threatened by them. And for that, I am come across as unapproachable. Especially when in work clothes. In jeans, a tee shirt, and flip flops, it would be a different story.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover” people will tell you. And I will tell you “Don’t judge a person by their drink of choice, reading material, and hair color.”
I’d like to say that I am happy. Or sad. Or angry, anxious, content, or even joyous. Something simple like glad, excited, or disappointed would be nice to say. But unfortunately there is not just one word to sum up my life, my feelings, my thoughts right now. And maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s alright to be experiencing confusion, anxiousness, guardedness, caution, curiousity, joy, and intrigue all at once. Maybe I’m lucky because not everyone gets to feel all of those things at all, and I get them all together.
It’s day four and L and I are seem to have picked up right where we left off. I don’t really think about the things she has to done to me, or the mistruths I was told, not until someone asks me about it. When L and I are together we are right back where we were almost a year ago. Laughing, bull shitting, joking around, catching up, talking about family, and just all around enjoying each other’s company.
It’s been four days and I can’t believe how much Calvin’s face has changed already. The black and white photo was taken the night they came to me, the night we say “an angel dropped them off on my doorstep. The night neither of knew the other was still alive, until someone ‘bigger’ decided that we needed to see each other. And help each other.” And she has been helping me just as I have been helping her. She is teaching me that people make mistakes and that doesn’t mean they’re bad people, it means they have made bad decisions in the past. She’s teaching me just how important it is to forgive people and move on. And she’s teaching me that sometimes you need to put differences aside to help one another.
The next photo of Calvin was taken this morning. While L was out walking my dog. She says it’s only fair after all I’ve done for her. She is trying so hard to prove her loyalty to me and doing me favors (like picking up my laundry) as some kind of forgiveness currency she thinks is important in my eyes. She can be even more stubborn than I remember. But, since she seems as though her world might fall apart if I don’t let her walk my dog as a “thank you” for all I’ve done, I do not have the heart to tell her how much I love to walk my dog and how much I look forward to it.
It’s only been four days and Calvin already knows my voice and recognizes me when I walk in the door. He also knows that when he’s hungry in the middle of the night, that Aunt Dean will feed him and let his mommy sleep. Because his mommy is emotionally exhausted and that far surpasses my physical and mental exhaustion from work and more work. He knows that I will rock him to sleep after his night-time bottle, because I love to. Because he will always bring a smile to my face. Because he is perfect, and he is beautiful, and he is smarter than we both realize.
And L smiled this morning. A big smile. A real one. The first real one I’ve seen since the night she knocked on my door praying that I would let her stay. That was all I needed, I knew that I was doing was right, no matter how many people think I’m crazy, or niave, or wrong, or stupid.
So, right now, this very moment, this period in my life, I am excited. Excited for things to come. Excited for those that are happening, and excited to just be, everyday, a person in a world where not everyone is bad.
…For lack of a better word… excited.
In February my boyfriend of three years and I split up. We had shared an apartment, pets, a bank account, cars, tooth paste, and a bed. Not even a week after we split, he moved to Florida. He took with him all of my pots and pans, dishes, silverware, cups, blankets, sheets, pillows, books, DVD’s, DVD player, TV, stereo, artwork, art supplies, some of my mother’s jewelry, my Jeep, my heart, and my best friend.
I was devastated…
As the days went on, more and more information was being passed on to me. They had been sleeping together since (last) June. And he had gotten her pregnant sometime around Christmas/New Year’s. My best friend of seven years.
She had a baby boy this past September. A little angel. Named Calvin Charles. What he and I would have named a little boy when/if we had one. Born on my birthday. 9lbs, 7oz and 19 inches long. Green eyes, blonde hair, and the cutest dimples I have ever seen. How do I know all of this?
…Because she came knocking on my door last night, with this handsome little boy in her hands. He was wide awake, despite the fact that it was most likely past his bedtime. She was not crying right then, but I could tell she had been for quite some time now. She was shivering and weak and looked starved.
He had cheated on her. I wanted to say I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t say anything. She was devastated, lost, confused, broke, and heart-broken. She and her little man were homeless, ashamed, embarrassed, and desperate. They needed a place to stay. A place where she thought he would never look for them. Because she left while he was working, just as he had done to me. Because she knew he would hit her again.
That surprised me. He had never hit me, but perhaps it was because he knew I was stronger than her. I wouldn’t have taken it; I would have stood up for myself, not cower, run, and hide as L did. (We’ll call her “L” to keep this as anonymous as possible.)
She had betrayed me. L betrayed my trust, threw away the best friendship she had ever had because of lust. She had lied to me, and hurt me, and deceived me. But she needed somewhere to go, somewhere to stay. And I couldn’t say no to her. So I called out sick from job # 2 last night, made her and her little man something to eat and watched as they both fell asleep on my couch.
She looked scared. Even in her sleep.
