Page 12 of Falling in Between

5

Later in the evening, I met Steph for Indian food. Of course, she wanted a blow by blow of my date. Imagine her disappointment when I told her the afternoon didnotend in an orgasm. She was so disheartened that it’s all she’s talked about from Bryant Park to East 32ndStreet.

We maneuver around the trash bags piled on the sidewalk for garbage pickup. “And so,” Steph says, “this mysterious man, whose last name and age you still don’t know, just up and leaves?” She tosses her hands in the air, nearly backhanding a woman passing by. The lady grumbles something, but Steph ignoresher.

“For the third time,yes.”

“What kind of guy asks a girl out—one he’s already screwed, by the way—knowing he only has half an hour tospare?”

Ishrug.

“He came dressed in a suit, Charlie.” Steph balks like it’s a crime. “That means he was between business meetings. He obviously wasn’t planning to rock your worldtoday.”

I sigh, and my shoulders droop in defeat. “Not everything is about sex,Steph.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Charlie. At our age,everythingis aboutsex.”

“No, everything is about sex when you’re in your twenties,beforemen start sprouting hair on their backs like a ChiaPet.”

She snarls. “Ew.”

“It’strue.”

“Okay, so you don’t want arelationship?”

I hold up both hands in full surrender. “Absolutelynot!”

“You don’t want a fuckbuddy?”

I shake my head. “Seemsoverrated.”

“Are you just going to be aloneforever?”

“I’ve only been divorced for half a year. And besides, there are alwayscats.”

“As in…the animals thatmeow?” Her pace slows, but I keepwalking.

“Yep. I think ten sounds aboutright.”

She sighs like I’m a lost cause. “Look, I refuse to be best friends with the pussylady.”

“You’re such a perv. Anyway, everyone needs apet.”

She stops, grabs my shoulder, and holds up a finger while giving me a stern look. “One, Charlie. I’ll allow youone.”

“Two.”

“One!” Her left eye twitches alittle.

“But—” I fight a laugh. “The first one will getlonely.”

“It’s a cat! They lick their assholes and cough up furballs.”

One block later, Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” bellows down the street. It’s the only cue I need to know that my neighbor Dot must be sweating away on the elliptical she keeps on her patio. By the time we’re in front of my apartment building, there’s a wild grin dancing on Steph’s face. “I swear. How old isshe?”

“I don’t know. Seventy-five or eighty.” I turn and glance up at her half of the brownstone. Sure enough, she’s in a tiny sports bra and bicycle shorts, a cigarette dangling from her lips while her legs churn away in beat with themusic.

Dot catches us staring and waves. We both smile and return thegesture.