Short goodbyes are best
“Where are you?” asks CBC.
“Home. Where else would I be in the middle of a rainy Sunday afternoon? Where are you?”
“Pearl Street. I had to drop off some stuff for [the gay couple who helped her move]. You gonna be home?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Should I come up?”
I look around taking in the place. Landfills are generally better looking. At least in a landfill the garbage gets covered in a foot of fresh dirt at the end of the day. “Uh, it’s not really fit for human habitation in here. I’ll come down. You wanna go for coffee?”
“Sure. Ten minutes. Bye.”
Eeek. Pearl Street is less than five minutes away. I look like shit. I slept ‘til 2:20—barely an hour ago. No time for much else. I run a cloth over my face, swish some mouthwash around, spit and run a brush through my hair. It’s no use. I still look like I’ve just gotten up. Fuck it. I go with the bedhead look and leave my hair down.
As I dash out on the fire-escape, she’s standing on the sidewalk, hair flowing out from around the hood of her raincoat. Taken aback by her beauty, I gasp. And take a moment to burn the image into my memory.
Fuck, I forgot something. “Hold on,” I yell and scurry back inside for the Manhattan GLBT AA meeting list, a pen and an index card.
She meets me at the bottom of the fire-escape stairs. “Presents?” I ask coyly. “For me?”
“Yeah. I told you I was going to give you my cigars. Oh. And I found a hat. I know you like to wear hats.”
“Nice try blondie. But presents still aren’t going to get you into my apartment. I have standards you know.” I flutter my eyes.
Standing in the rain, we exchange presents.
Looking at the meeting list she exclaims, “Wow! You really do care.”
We hug.
“Never doubt it,” I assure her. Examining my booty, “Cool. Nat Sherman’s.”
“They’re probably too old and dried out to smoke,” she says apologetically. “But it’s a nice box.”
It is. Real tree wood, brass hinges and latch, logo burned in the top. Exchanging the gift hat for the one I’m wearing, I don’t recognize the logo on the hat. Looks sorta like the UN…
“Oh.” I figured it out. “The Franciscans.” Her biggest client. “I should have known. Thank you. I’ll put these inside.” Back up the stairs, back down the stairs.
“Is it okay if we walk to the place around the corner? The car is kinda full,” she explains.
This turns out to be a mistake. Starry Nights is too quiet. All the other patrons are reading or pretending to do Real Important Work on their laptops. The library is louder.
We make do with small talk. She tells me I’m the last she’s seeing on her way out of town, tells me about laser hair removal. And I finally get contact information. Finishing our cookies and coffee I suggest a walk before the long ride to New York. Slashing through the puddles, away from prying eyes and ears, we can talk.
“It’s nice to see you,” I started. “I figured you’d be gone by now.” She’d come back last night to pick up the car. Too late for the meeting, we joined the others at Jine’s.
“I wanted to go to The Spot last night after dinner, but I was too tired.”
“Me too,” I replied. “It’s hard enough for me to think and form memories to begin with. It’s impossible when I’m tired.”
“Well, I wanted to thank you for everything. You’ve given me so much during these past three weeks.”
“Hey, I keep sayin’, what are friends—I mean—family for? I’ve gotten as much back too. Thanks for that. It think it’s been fairly even. What’s on deck for the next few weeks?”
“I’ll probably go into the city tomorrow just to show my face and let ‘em know I’m back. Unpacking and getting settled for the rest of the month. By May it should be getting back to normal.”
“What about [the roommate]? She’s going to be a problem, you know.” The roommate reminds me, too much, of me back seven years ago—needy, clingy, jealous, co-dependent. The first night in the new place, she wouldn’t sleep in her own bed. Insisted on bunking with CBC. CBC spent the night peeling [the roommate] off her.
“She’s really jealous of you, you know.”
“I bet. I seem to bring it out in women. Must be my natural charm,” I grin. “Last time a woman was jealous of me, she came after me with a steak knife. Came out of it without a scratch. I think I can handle [the roommate]. If she gets to be too much for you though, call me. I’ll be on the next train.”
“I’ll just ask her to move. It’s only me on the lease.”
“It’s not usually that easy. But for your sake I hope it goes well. When she gets out of whack about me, remind her you’re my kid sister—”
“—and you’re my big brother from Upstate.”
We’re back at the car. CBC starts it with the remote and says, “I need a hug.” We hug, bone-crushingly, the way I like. “You hug nice,” she tells me.
“Yeah, well only until you grow your tits. Tits get in the way of a really great hug.”
“Then I’d better have another.”
I oblige.
“I’ll be up for your birthday in June,” she promises.
“I’ll try to get down before that.”
She opens the car door. “Hey,” I call out. “Drive wicked fast and stay to the left.”
“Always.”
I watch her pull away, tears mingling with the rain on my face.
