Page 2 of Below the Shadow of the City

CHAPTER 2

SATURDAY, LATE AUGUST

I ’m supposed to meet the pink-haired bass-playing barista at a gay bar in Williamsburg I’ve been to dozens of times. Before I open the door, I take a few moments on the sidewalk to compose myself. Dusk is quickly fading and I’m hoping the darkness obscures my identity for a few seconds while I flip the breaker switches and reset to the better version of myself.

Each one of these dates makes it tougher to dig the old me out. She’s usually curled up in a corner of my mind, hissing and swiping and begging to be left alone.

Once I get my bearings and enter, the barista is easy to spot. Her pastel tresses whip about as she excitedly talks to a bartender, who, based on her mannerisms, is a good friend of hers. I step up and smooth out the miniskirt I chose to wear, forgetting I’d spend the night precariously perched on a barstool. I’ve completely blanked on her name, Margo told me when I’d agreed to the date, but it’s long escaped me. In hindsight, I should have asked for a refresher yesterday, but yesterday I was still gripping onto the hope that she’d cancel entirely. Can’t disappoint a date that doesn’t happen.

I’d preoccupied my pre-date anxiety last night with horror movies and an order of Chinese food so large there were multiple forks in the tied up smiley face printed plastic bag the delivery person handed me. I passed out on the couch until two in the morning and then dragged myself to bed, only waking up when a symphony of car horns jolted me from a chicken lo mein and crab rangoon induced coma.

“Hi, you must be Sigrid!” She exclaims as I approach, I softly smile with an air of confusion.

“Celia,” she grins and points to herself. Right, Celia .

She hops up from her barstool and embraces me in a hug. Bubbly, effervescent energy oozes out of her. I think my Chinese food from last night might make a reappearance.

“Margo totally undersold you, you’re even cuter in person!” She exclaims.

“That is incredibly flattering,” I blush. “You are stunning, seriously. And your hair is honestly incredible.” Celia flips a few strands over her shoulders and twirls them between her fingers. She makes a joke about how it’s her natural color, and we exchange the baseline compliments first dates give to one another in the initial moments of meeting.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, Margo did good on my behalf. She is stunningly gorgeous, a face with sharp angles and glimmering green eyes, brightened by her novelty hair color. Gorgeous, but someone I’d never see again after tonight.

Even though she’s all of the things I would want from a date, I already know how this is going to end. I swiftly order a beer and clutch it in my hands so tightly I fear I may shatter the glass.

The blur of dates I’ve gone on in the last few months have grown to be physically painful. So much small talk, so much body language to try to decipher. And every single time I’m just putting off the inevitable.

My elbow slides further and further onto the bartop, I want to crawl underneath the counter and disappear into the ice maker.

Despite my discomfort, an hour flies by as Celia gregariously spills out every detail about her band (power pop with heavy 80s influence), her job (she loves latte art), her cat (a white Persian named Ginsburg), and her upbringing in small town Pennsylvania. Her anecdotes are amusing, and in an ironic twist I saw her band back at a bar near my apartment a year ago.

For anyone else, she would be an incredible partner. She’s funny, sweet, and appropriately excitable. But I can’t let myself think about any of those things. Because I can’t grow attached to Celia, just like I couldn’t grow attached to any of the other dates Margo has set up for me.

I tell myself I keep going on these dates to appease Margo and her endless pursuit of finding my true love. But I know beneath my hardened exterior a soft vulnerable piece of me hopes that maybe one of these dates will be different. And maybe Celia could be different, if I let her be.

“You’ve heard enough about me,” she says sweetly. “Tell me, what’s Sigrid’s story?” She rests her chin in her palms.

Who is Sigrid Larson?

She’s a former latchkey kid from Long Island who moved to Brooklyn the moment she turned eighteen in hopes that she’d fall into some cool alternative arts community. Instead, all she got was six years as a waitress, followed by four more as an executive assistant at a tech company, a decent apartment in Williamsburg that she can barely afford by herself, and a three year relationship that ended seven months ago. It had been the final nail in the coffin for any hope of true love.

“I’m not all that exciting, truly,” I chuckle uncomfortably.

The familiarity of my couch calls to me, I’m craving a bottle of cheap red and a night watching the traffic cross the Williamsburg Bridge from my fire escape.

She tilts her head innocently, backlit by the Christmas lights hanging from the bar. In this glowy lighting she looks like a fairy of sorts, her pastel pink locks glow with a magic that would enchant pretty much anyone.

On all of these first dates it feels like someone else is piloting my body. Everything feels clunky and weird and I forget how to be a person entirely. My subconscious seems to sabotage me. I want to act on my interest in her, she deserves to be spending her Saturday night with someone who might take her home or do the unthinkable, go on a second date with her. But some unknown force doesn’t let it happen.

“Margo told me you bake?” She quirks up the corners of her mouth with genuine intrigue.

Margo had omitted the fact that I used to bake. She failed to mention to Celia that I haven’t made anything beyond survival staples in seven months. My bodily composition is probably sixty percent buttered noodles with cheap shaker parmesan at this point. The burgeoning Instagram account that I used to lovingly nurture has all but been deactivated, and now might be my ticket to actual notoriety, but I can’t think of that right now.

I give Celia a half-honest answer about not having much time anymore, but I show her a few shots from the old well-lit, perfectly curated life I used to have. My answer must be satisfactory, because she gently drags her fingers across my forearm. I exhale. She’s trying. She’s sweet. But I don’t have it in me to let this go any further. Because the longer it goes on, the less I can lie to myself and pretend that I’m not genuinely interested in her.

More time and casual small talk pass between us. Once the clock ticks towards ten I can play the “it’s getting late, I had a long day,” card and make my escape. She doesn’t need to know I rolled out of bed at noon and spent the seven hours after waking not moving from my couch frozen with stress until I was on the verge of being late to this date.

Cotton candy Celia seems slightly dejected, but overall unaffected. She goes back to excitedly talking with the bartender while I silently exit through the mahogany door, eyes stinging. Cigarette smoke curls into my nostrils from the clusters of friends gathered around planning their next stop of the night.

Another swath of mist finely coats the city, and I’m ill-prepared for it. The eleven blocks to my apartment are hardly enough to warrant calling a cab, but my sleeves quickly stick to my arms from the rain.

Sparse, hot tears meld with the cool rain. I’m mad at myself. For fucking up yet another date, for forgetting to toss an umbrella in my bag, and for wearing shoes that are going to be sopping wet by the time I get to my apartment.

The longer I stand on the sidewalk, my fists balled up at my sides in frustration, the more the rain coats my entire body. I decide to stop delaying my walk, I could have been halfway home if I made the choice earlier. My headphones are somewhere lost at the bottom of the black hole purse I got off the Urban Outfitters clearance rack years ago, I’m already too annoyed to wrangle them out.

There was a time I could have romanticized a night like this. The way the rain makes the flickering bar lights sparkle and amplifies the sound of cars rolling by is cinematic from a point of view that hasn’t been marred by rampant pessimism. I trudge down the sidewalk and shiver from the late summer breeze.

Even the way my apartment is softly aglow from the light above my oven would be warm and inviting to someone else. I slink across the parquet flooring and flop onto my couch. Surely, cheerful Celia is having a better night now that she’s moved on past the obligatory date with me.

Maybe she’ll meet some hot drummer from Greenpoint and they’ll hit it off and have an amazing life together with exotic cats and an expensive espresso machine in a sunlit kitchen. Or maybe her band will make it big and she’ll tour the country.

In any of these hypothetical futures I imagine for her there's one common thread, I’m not going to be a part of it. And she’ll be far better off.

While my phone rests in my palm I open Instagram, and the first picture that pops up on my feed is Perrie.

Her glistening white teeth grin beside a tall blond in front of Big Ben, filtered to make the gray skies seem intentional and artsy. They contrast her flaming bright red hair, wild curls that practically fill the frame. Even now, I recall exactly what they felt like twirling between my fingertips. Perrie’s still in London, where she’s been since February. The tall blond is new, and after some light stalking I see she’s a graduate student studying psychology. I could use her insights right about now.

Not wanting to reopen the wound more than I already have, I close out of Instagram with a swift aggression. My final digital act of the evening is to message Margo, part of this well-rehearsed routine by now. She’d gotten countless messages apologizing for how badly I’d fucked up her blind dates. She must have run through her entire contacts list for me at this point, I’m baffled that there’s anyone left in all of Brooklyn for me to meet.

I think I’m going to take a break from dating.

Permanently this time.

You’ve been too gracious, and I don’t think there’s anyone left in Brooklyn for me.

I toss my phone across my couch and curl up on the cheap velour. Bass rattles from a car on the street below, barely muffled by the pre-war bay windows in the living room .

Every failed date ends in the same way. I return to my apartment and am greeted by the light above my stove and the stillness of the space. And every time I wonder why I bother meeting strangers that I know I’ll never allow myself to fall in love with, or even take home for a quick hookup.

I’ve asked the “what’s wrong with me” question more times than I can count since January, though the answer remains the same as it has been for every relationship before her and all that will come after. No amount of tarot card pulls, therapists, and soul searching can give me a true answer as to why Perrie decided to leave me on a random, boring Sunday. She was the latest in a lifelong string of relationships that came to a similar end. All of them

I circle around the apartment and fling all the windows open to let in the cool damp air, more effective than my struggling air conditioner. Despite just returning from a fifteen minute walk in the rain, I feel like my walls are closing in on me. When I prop myself on the edge of the couch again I replay the scene of Perrie leaving.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she had said, exasperated, as if us sharing the cushions together was some boiling point she’d reached. I was curled up with my laptop scrolling Tumblr, occasionally flipping it around to show her something I’d found amusing when she made her final statement. Our legs were intertwined, we practically melted into each other when we laid this close together. She untangled herself and sat up straight, refusing to look at me. Her ginger curls framed her face like a final curtain call.

After her hasty statement, it became a blur. She left for the night in a rush of flowing hair and leather duffle bags, and didn’t return until the following Saturday. That morning, Perrie walked into the apartment like I wasn’t even there and packed her things in silence as I begged for an answer. Three year relationships weren’t supposed to end like this. There was supposed to be passion, fireworks, something. Had I grown to be such an afterthought that breaking up was merely another chore for her to check off the list?

I’d been lulled into a false sense of security, we’d spent over a thousand days together, her presence beside me each morning was as certain as the sun rising. I knew her morning routine to the minute, I picked up her favorite drinks at the store without a second thought, our existence was perfectly symbiotic. Foolishly, I’d assumed synchronization was the same as love. I thought she was the one who would be different.

And after that final Saturday, she vanished. Like a complete ghost. Her existence was almost questionable, I had to remind myself she actually was real. That we had in fact spent multiple years together supposedly in love with one another.

In hindsight, there were plenty of things I’d overlooked. Logic could tell me that the breakup was overdue. Perrie was callous, combative, and had a superiority complex. I could frame her cruelty as comedy, but I’m sure my rose-colored glasses had done plenty of heavy lifting.

I’d ignored things like biting words and insults tossed around like they were “no big deal.” That’s what Perrie said about them, she’d claimed that every nasty comment was a joke, that her brand of comedy was darker and snarkier than most. She’d sometimes cushion them with compliments. For every snide remark about my personality or appearance, there’d be a sweet sentiment. Until the kindness grew to be more infrequent, and her comments became more pointed.

Despite all this, I held tight to the sweet words she’d say, the simple actions shared between two people that confirmed affection, and the fact that she’d stayed the longest of any relationship I’d had.

When we first split, I tried to look for signs. First, for the exact inflection point when she’d decided we were over. And then, signs that she actually ever liked me in the first place .

I loved her though, and I wanted to convince myself she loved me too.

Blocking her would mean I’d lose the singular string connecting her life to mine, so instead, I painfully kept her on my socials, her specter would still haunt my feed on occasion. It was probably an act of self harm to do so, but my pitiful self secretly craved the pain.

Months passed, winter thawed and the trees outside my window regrew their buds. The sun warmed the floors in my living room, and I remained there, frozen completely. She fled the country and moved on quickly. And my friends assumed I’d evolve past the heartache, after all, most people knew how to. My hair grew out, then I cut it, my nail color changed multiple times over. But there was still a piece of me that died on January Twentieth and would never be revived.

Perrie wasn’t the first to disappear in a flash. She was the final, though.

I’m cursed, I’m certain.

I have an uncanny ability to kill a relationship. It’s a pattern, it has been for over a decade now. Things are fine, great, even, until out of the blue, they’re not. But somehow I’m still surprised when they leave.

Perrie didn’t break the pattern, our end was just delayed. My guard was down, my hackles had been lowered, but ultimately, the curse prevailed. She left, without warning, just like the others had. It broke me.

And somewhere in the stillness of sorrow, I’d lost my heart entirely over these last seven months. I wandered like the Tin Man in Oz searching for it, only to come to the conclusion that I was better off without it. If I hardened myself into an impenetrable shell, no one could stab through and carve out a piece of my soft interior for themselves.

So, the night Perrie left for the last time I made a decision. I wouldn’t free fall into love again, the crash would be much too destructive. I’d let myself stay with both feet planted on solid ground. Because only a miracle could break this curse I’m under.

Tonight, sweet Celia would be filed away with the others. Those who I couldn’t let myself fall for out of fear they’d fall apart in the same manner every other relationship had.

Even if there were sparks, I wouldn’t be able to recognize them as anything more than static electricity.

I shed my damp layers of clothing, letting my skirt fall to the floor in a heap and tossing my bra into a corner. I’ve been wallowing in self pity for months now, but tonight it feels particularly warranted. I slip on ratty pajama pants and a big t-shirt. I grab the bottle of wine sitting on my counter. I pop the cork out and toss it into the trash can, already planning to drink the entire bottle tonight.

The scene needs to be set. I light a candle and put Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album on my record player. In between swigs of the cheap saccharine wine I let my hips sway to the music. I wander in and out of the bedroom and sing along to Dreams as it crackles on the thrifted Victrola I bought on a trip to my friend Declan’s parents’ place in Montauk last Summer.

This is how I’m supposed to exist on this planet, alone and lavishing in clearance candles, Trader Joe’s wine, and Stevie Nicks singing to the man she hates.