Noah Wailen was looking at her. Her? “Me?” she thought. “Out of everybody in the chic, dark basement bar, including skinny girls with big boobs and thousand-dollar handbags, he’s looking at me?”

Noah dipped his chin in a slight nod. The move was as subtle as a cat that only twitches an ear to react to a sound. He was coolly, coyly acknowledging her.

“Me!” she cheered in her mind. “Meeeeee! Eeeee! OMG I have to tell Vicky.”

Vicky was smiling, showing off her straight, bleached teeth to no one in particular, as she listened to the chatter at the table. She was always smiling but to those who didn’t know her well, it usually seemed sincere. Acquaintances often reacted by smiling back receptively, expectantly, as though Vicky was a ray of sunshine they wanted to get warmed by.

Audrey knew that Vicky really wasn’t that happy. They had shared many late nights drinking alone together venting about their insecurities and sharing the horror stories of their high school years. Vicky, a size 4, worried her thighs had too much giggle, that the German structure of her face made her appear manly, and that people thought she was vapid. Vicky’s deepest scar from high school came after she lost her virginity to a basketball player. After their break-up, he had Sharpied her cell-phone number “for a good time” in the boys’ locker room. Vicky was not a happy camper even though she appeared that way to most people. To Audrey, this made her utterly alluring, like someone who could get beat up and yet keep on fighting. She imagined that was what Hollywood actresses were like: human and miserable but blessed like by a fairy godmother that made their pain fade behind a royal glow of beauty and happiness. It was like Vicky’s make-up, Audrey thought. Vicky would wear thick, syrupy lip gloss all day, everyday, and Audrey had never seen her long hair get stuck in it. Vicky wore colorful eye shadow, and she never looked like a clown or like she was trying too hard.

Vicky would know what to do. Audrey yelled in a whisper at her ear. “Oh my god. You won’t believe this. Look over my shoulder to like 11 o’clock. Wait, don’t be obvious.”

“Ok, ok, I’m going slow.”

“Dude, he’s looking at me. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Oh my god. Noah Wailen?” Vicky gushed.

Audrey squeaked.

“How do you know?” Vicky said. Audrey felt spanked by Vicky’s doubt, but tried to ignore it.

“Cause I’ve just been sitting here, chilling out and looking around and we caught eyes. I looked away but each time

I glance back, he’s staring at me. And then, he gave me a nod. Like a slight, hot-as-hell nod.”

“Oh my god! I’m so happy for you. So cool.”

“So, what do I do?”

“This is something between you and him. You should do what’s in your heart.”

“Vicky, what does that mean? Ugh, do I go over there? Should I wait for him to come here? Should I smile at him?” C’mon, help me, she thought.

“You haven’t smiled at him?!” Vicky gasped in disapproval.

“No. Oh my god, I hope I have ruined this. I’ve just been so stunned.”

“Well smile at him, give him an unconfusable sign. Guys are dense, even Noah Wailen, I’m sure.”

“Ok, ok.”

The college kid hired to help with the party paused, suspended by a mix of consternation and belligerence. He didn’t know what kind of red it was. He just knew it wasn’t white. Qualifications for work-study financial aid positions didn’t include being a wine aficionado—duh. It, in fact, required quite just the opposite. He drank his wine from a box.

Hugh noticed the delay and read it as incompetence. Marjorie, the chair of the English department, always had these untrained kids assisting her all-department events.

“Nevermind, the red is fine. Two, please.”

Hugh took the wine and walked back to the front door where his wife, Emily, still stood. She was smoothing out windblown strands of hair and her grey sweater set in the mirror by the door. He handed her a glass. She took a gulp of it with a shaky hand. He faced out toward the guests surveying how to best insert themselves into the party.

“Oh, there’s Larry, and he’s with his wife. What’s her name? Do you remember? You did enjoy talking with her that one time, right?”

“I think her name was Shirley. Or Cheryl. Or Shelly? I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. I’m still feeling a bit shaken up.”

“Oh you’re alright. Nothing actually happened.” And then he continued. “But something could happen if we don’t stick around here for a bit making nice with everyone. If we left now, my colleagues will think I’m anti-social, or worse, they won’t think of me at all. And then what happens? I don’t get tenure.”

“It’s all about you,” Emily said.

“Well, we’re here for me. So yes, this is about me.”

“We’re here. Do you recognize that pronoun as plural? That means you realize there are two of us here.”

“Fine. But you’re acting as though you think I want to be here. You think I wouldn’t prefer to be lounging around at home than clinking glasses with Marjorie and her cronies?”

“Ok, ok. You say that, but I think you like these things. You shine when you’re schmoozing. You really do. Lubricated with a glass or two of wine, your small talk trumps them all.”

“Well, you think you know me so well, don’t you?”

Jackhammers would have been better—loud noises, he could sleep through. For several mornings now, jackhammers had assaulted his eardrums beginning at six a.m., and he was almost used to them. But the persistent buzz of his cell phone at eleven thirty p.m. on a Friday night successfully penetrated his haze of near sleep. The vibration of plastic against night stand was not loud enough to ignore.

He wasn’t sure the call was from Janine, but he knew it probably was. He reasoned as clearly as he could, his mind clouded by the five milligrams of Vicodin he’d swallowed an hour ago. Five milligrams wasn’t much, not by any addict’s standards, but then, he wasn’t an addict. Just a man who was done feeling for the day and whose friend had undergone dental surgery and didn’t like painkillers. At most he took one pill a week on Friday nights when he was alone, or wanted to be.

Last Friday night Janine had come over unexpectedly. Not exactly uninvited, but the idea hadn’t been his either. So he hadn’t felt too bad about surreptitiously ingesting a pill while she’d been in the bathroom. She’d stayed over that night too, which had been okay. He liked a warm body next to him in bed; it could even be soothing if it was the right person keeping him company. Janine probably wasn’t right, but she wasn’t necessarily wrong, and so it had been okay for her to sleep over.

Me: we still on?

Josh: oh yeah. It’s a double date.

Me: cool.

Josh: any ideas where to go?

Me: someplace that won’t have a wait and doesn’t take reservations.

Josh: true, true it’s prolly too late for that.

Me: yeah and lines suck

Josh: agree

Me: where are you guys coming from again?

Josh: upper west side. and you’re still in brooklyn right?

Me: yeah park slope. well sorta park slope, south slope

Josh: what train’s near you?

Me: the F. everything’s inconvenient except the lower east side

Josh: oh, well there’s a lot there

Me: but isn’t that a pain for the two of you?

Josh: it’s ok. you’re coming all the way in from brooklyn

Me: it’s not that far

Josh: it’s far enough

Me: ok ok

Me: btw, did you tell me your girl Miriam is vegan?

Josh: yep no dairy, eggs, fish, meat

Me: ok…well at least that narrows it down

Josh: do you like thai?

Me: can’t. i’m allergic to peanuts

Josh: oh I forgot

Me: and fresh fruit that grows on trees.

Josh: how about mexican?

Me: could do. but isn’t that what we did last time?

Josh: oh yeah

Me: there’s got to be something else that works

Josh: k, I’m going through menu pages

Me: me too.

Options on menu pages: African, American (New), American (Traditional), Argentinean, Asian, Australian, Austrian, Bagels, Bar Food, Barbecue, Bistro, Burgers, Caribbean, Cheesesteaks, Chinese, Coffeehouses, Cuban, Delis, Desserts & Bakeries, Dim Sum, Diners & Coffee Shops, Eastern European, Eclectic International, English, French, German, Health Food, Indian, Indonesian, Irish, Italian, Japanese, Kosher, Latin American, Malaysian, Mediterranean, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Moroccan, Noodle Shops, Nuevo Latino, Other, Pan-Asian & Pacific Rim, Pizza, Sandwiches, Scandinavian, Seafood, Smoothies/Juice Bar, South American, Southern & Soul, Spanish, Steakhouses, Sushi, Tapas, Teahouses, Thai, Turkish, Vegan, Vegetarian, Vietnamese, Wild Game, Wine Bar Wings

Me: I was thinking ethiopian would work, but I don’t see it on here.

Josh: maybe under african

Me: true, duh

Me: no ethiopian in the LES just french inspired african

Josh: ok. what about health food? does that sound boring? I figure then we can ask about the ingredients and they’ll prolly be aware of allergies etc.

Me: ok with me

Josh: k

Me: what about peace café?

Josh: any place except peace café. I’ve been there. it totally sucks.

Me: hahaha oh no

It was a Thursday, and a week of reading, cramming and studying had exploded onto a sleazy, Lower East Side bar upon which I was dancing wearing only my black bra and jeans. Amy was on the bar grinding alongside me. We were among friends from NYU and strangers, and I felt comfortable. More accurately, I didn’t care enough to feel discomfort. So I danced holding an inverted, half-empty bottle of tequila to my lips as the kitchen help howled.

The rest of our group sat calmly at a table. Brad was drunk and moping over a girl. Scott was trying to cheer him up. And then there was Aiden, quietly watching. The drinking, the grinding, the nudity, all went against his strict Mormon values. And yet there he was still sitting at the table watching.

Aiden was often there, always involved, never partaking, throwing in the world’s face the cognitive dissonance of a Mormon priest who looked like a California surfer and danced till dawn swigging water from his flask. He was good looking, well-dressed, but didn’t pay much attention to women. Who could blame him? Not only did he have to remain chaste until marriage, but he could barely kiss a girl without invoking the wrath of The Church. So he receded into fashion, jokes and shenanigans earning the reputation of gay from half the school and asexual from the other half. As he sat there, Aiden barely registered on my radar.

Then he grabbed me. Well, actually the way it happened is hazy, but I presume this is how it occurred: Amy and I got drunker and as more clothes started coming off, the boys came to take us off the bar. Aiden put himself in my line of fire. He stood below me with his hands held up to help me down. I grabbed them, dropped down to his level and leaned against him. Emboldened by alcohol and attention—it’s blurry—but drunkenly, innocently, I kissed him.

I don’t remember much of the car ride home, but I don’t recall feeling bad. Aiden rolled with the gang, and a kiss was occasional collateral damage. When we got to my apartment, I wobbled out of the car, waved happily to the crew and started on my way. But my consciousness snapped back into place as Aiden got out behind me and planted a firm grip on my elbow. Once he had guided me up the front stairs, I turned at the top to wave goodbye. And that’s when it happened. In front of the doorman, in front of a car full of friends, he kissed me. Too drunk and dumbfounded to speak, I turned away slowly and gingerly made my way up to my apartment.

Compared to Aiden, and indeed compared with much of my medical school class, I was the picture of sin. I had my first drink at 14 and finished high school with a tongue ring, an arrest record and a penchant for frequenting nightclubs with men twice my age. I had spent the last two years running with a fast crowd in Los Angeles, and dancing shirtless on a booze soaked bar was a Tuesday for me, not a Thursday.

By Julia Neyman