Chronicles of New York

It was just the morning after that he dreaded. As Janine would practice and preach, Saturday mornings are for sleeping in. He knew that’s what he was supposed to believe, and sometimes, he even wished that he agreed. But in his world, Saturday mornings were for working, not for cuddling and bagels and newspapers and slowly sipped cups of coffee.

And Friday nights, they were for sleeping. Or at least lying prone, motionless, letting thoughts blur into unimportance.

Janine thought Fridays were for fun, to take advantage of all New York had to offer, and she’d told him last week that their Blockbuster night was an exception. She’d stay in with him this once, she’d said, but in general, he needed to get out more. With her.

He hadn’t argued—the Vicodin had kicked in by then—but if he’d had the energy to speak he might have disagreed, would have considered explaining how little her opinions mattered to him. Instead, he’d shifted his position on the couch, making a gesture that could have been interpreted as a shrug.

He didn’t care much about Janine, but he cared that she was calling him at eleven thirty on a Friday night. He envisioned her standing in a bathroom stall at whatever swanky bar, probably in the meatpacking district, she and her friends were spending their paychecks at that evening. He mentally debated her intentions, whether she’d implore him to come out or insist on coming over. He decided quickly that the best way to avoid either was to do nothing.

The buzzing stopped. Seconds later, maybe a minute, another vibration resonated at the small table next to his bed. Voicemail.

The next morning at seven fifteen he was halfway to the diner when he decided to check his messages. He’d remembered the unwanted phone call as soon as he awoke, and before a short shower, he had verified that it was Janine who had disturbed him. After getting dressed and leaving his apartment to get a quick breakfast, he’d summoned the will to hear her voice.

“Kyyyyle, don’t be an old fart. Call me back and come meet us! Pllllease, you are only twenty-eight.”

The way she said please, it sounded like a question and a demand at the same time. Janine’s ability to convincingly whine was impressive if not attractive. He was sure there were men who would have felt tempted to accept her plea for companionship. But those men would have answered the phone. Or really, he figured, those men would have called her first. He didn’t understand why women bothered to pursue him. It was against the natural order of things. It wasn’t that he opposed feminine independence; it was just that it didn’t work. Once a woman pursued him, he lost interest. Every time. Especially if she was sexually appealing.

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This entry was posted by Willow on Monday, November 9th, 2009 at 4:21 pm. It is filed under Guest Contributors and has these tags: career, daily life, diner, drinking, fiction, food, frustration, life, manhattan, new york city, privacy, sex. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.