Page 9 of Summer Skate

“I’m married with children, so I’m certainly tied down.” I smile. “The problem with marriage . . . Well, one of the many problems, is that it doesn’t change your entire personality. And I’m sort of a restless person by nature.”

He nods knowingly, though I’m sure he doesn’t know.

They finish their drinks. They seem completely unaffected by the alcohol content. I can’t relate. One drink and I’ll tell you anything.

“Well, it’s been nice chatting,” I say.

“Yeah!” They put their glasses down on the table. “Thanks for the refreshments. Hey. Tonight. Game seven of the Stanley Cup finals. We’re going to watch the game and have a little party. You should come! See some actual twentysomethings in the wild . . . ” Jack is grinning widely.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not much of a hockey fan.”

“Starts at seven. Come one, come all.”

“I don’t think so, but . . . ” I shrug. “I may change my mind.”

“All right.”

“To go or go not,” I say to the Hemingway fan. He bows his head at me.

As they turn to leave, I stare at their bodies. These are some fit men. Greek god–like. Nobody in the neighborhood looks like this. These are physical specimens. Everywhere they go, they must stand out. Hence the girls. It must be so easy to get laid.

Once they’ve left, back through the hedges, I jot down some notes. I might have gotten a few pages out of it. Worth the damage to the shrubs. Especially since the shrubs aren’t mine.

I have a long night of nothing ahead of me.

I go for a walk, watch TV, read, but I am itching for something more, desperate to go out and interact with other humans.

I call a few friends who are in the area, but they’re all with their kids, in the middle of bath time or putting them to sleep.

Alejandro is on his seventh course at Milos, a Greek restaurant in midtown that serves some special kind of branzino that only investment bankers can afford.

I try to go to bed early, but I can’t sleep. I listen to the music next door.

Should I go to the party? I get a laugh out of that idea. What would I even do there?

I go outside, sit on the steps to my house, and stare at the rustling trees, the moon, the cars on the street turning into the house next door. Cars begin to park along the road in front of my house, their headlights illuminating my driveway, followed by voices in the distance.

Tonight, I can handle. But then I think about tomorrow.

Page one hundred and one staring back at me.

The cursor blinking on the blank page. You know what?

Maybe I just need something to happen. Life has been stagnant lately.

Maybe I need a little turmoil. And since when am I a stranger to that?

I sneak out of my own apartment on a regular basis, for crying out loud.

Talking to the guys about my twenties reminds me of who I am now, at my core, which is less trouble, but still some.

I’ll just walk over there. I can always turn back.

I go back upstairs to the bedroom, fix my hair in the bathroom mirror.

I put on a white short-sleeved terry cloth dress that hugs my body, and a layer of lip balm.

I go downstairs, scour the liquor cabinet for something that won’t be missed.

There are only half-empty bottles of gin and tequila.

I open the wine fridge and consider a bottle of wine.

Do these guys drink wine? Am I supposed to be pilfering the liquor at this place?

A lot of unanswered questions. I march down my driveway into the hot night with a bottle in hand.

In search of material. I am nothing if not a dedicated professional.

I turn onto their driveway, past the procession of PRIVATE ROAD and NO TRESPASSING signs.

I am moving my hips to avoid the side mirrors of parked cars.

It is tricky, with every mirror caught in a muddle of branches from the trees beside the driveway.

It would be easier to get to the house if I walked through the woods surrounding the driveway, but I can’t do that.

I am by no means an outdoorswoman, but a short white dress and flip-flops do not strike me as woods attire.

Once I’m closer to the house, I see that there is a gigantic flat-screen television, with the game on, and people yelling around it. It smells like burgers and hot dogs. There is a crowd of bodies in every room. The music is thumping.

I think: All right. Time to turn back . I don’t belong here.

I should go home, before somebody throws up on me.

I should just enjoy the lit windows and not being completely alone here in the woods.

Isn’t that the ideal situation, to be alone but have the low rumble of a party going on in the distance that you don’t have to attend? I turn to leave.

But then I look up at the moon, and it’s like the moon is teasing me. Another night of moon staring, huh? No. I have immersed myself in nature. I have watched sunsets, smelled flowers, listened to the wind. No. I have stared at the moon for long enough. The moon and I are over .

“I love your dress,” a girl says to me, passing by, as I stand there frozen in the driveway. “Thanks,” I reply, looking down. I slip inside the house.