Page 15 of Sunny Side Up

“Copy that.” He sat up a little straighter and gave me a salute, a god’s honest salute, and then said, “Well, thanks for last night. I’ve always wanted to fuck a fat girl.”

My breath caught.

My stomach dropped.

Nausea rushed up my throat.

Did he really just say that?

“It was better than I thought,” he said, continuing to dump into his own trash fire of words.

“Uh-um, you’re welcome,” I coughed out. Hating myself immediately.

Hating the need to fill the space, to make others feel at ease, even when it was suddenly revoltingly obvious that this guy, this lazy, selfish, totally nothing guy, didn’t deserve anything easy.

I threw my coat on, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Because TJ spoke again.

“And a divorcée, too? Honestly, love it. You really helped me with my checklist. You know, every guy has their list of types before getting wifed up, so to speak. That and divorced were both on mine.” I couldn’t believe he was still speaking, but somehow he went on, oblivious.

He snapped his fingers and pointed a finger gun at me before asking, “By the way, is it true what they say? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? Want me to help you again before you go?”

I composed myself.

“No thank you, TJ. But one more thing to add to your list, before your ball and chain: You’re thirty-eight. Learn how to give a woman an orgasm!” I screamed, slamming his apartment door, hoping his neighbors would hear.

Once I’d made my way outside, I jumped into the first taxi I could flag down, buckled my seat belt, and blocked TJ’s number.

I bit my lip the entire ride, willing myself not to cry, as all the confidence I’d felt falling asleep just a few hours earlier crumbled completely.

What was I thinking? When we pulled up outside the Golden Girls’ day care spot, I paid the fare, feet hitting the sidewalk, relieved to be back in fresh air. I couldn’t believe I paid for my dogs to stay at this fancy day care so I could wake up and be traumatized.

Why did I think I could do this? All the dating apps?

Multiple dates a week? Why had I dared to write a whole newsletter about my self-imposed challenge?

Or my journey to self-acceptance? “Body positivity.” What absolute bullshit.

All of it. Was I crazy? Why did I think anyone would actually want to date me again?

The Golden Girls looked up at me with tails wagging as they walked into the front lobby of the fancy day care.

I said my hellos, acted as normal as possible, even took a glance at their report card that the dog sitter handed to me, before shoving it in my bag and rushing out the door.

I let myself start to cry when I hit the relief of the sidewalk once again.

New York’s streets are the perfect setting for big emotions.

Everyone’s so busy, so wrapped up in their own worlds, trying to catch subways and taxis and the siren-muffled words on the other end of their phone calls, that no one pays attention to the couple fighting on the corner or the child who’s thrown themself onto the concrete in a tantrum, or even the woman leaning against a building, trying to catch her breath, while two sleepy dogs look up in confusion as she sobs.

TJ’s words. They echoed Zack’s, which I’d heard too often before his. And my own inner voice, always telling me that I was somehow too much yet not enough all at the same time.

Always wanted to fuck a fat girl.

You sure you don’t want to wear something looser? Those pants look too tight, and not in a good way.

I can’t do this anymore.

My head was spinning, exploding. Then a Queens accent disrupted my thoughts.

“Sunny?” I turned my head to the right. “Everything okay?” It was the mailman with the piercing eyes, his brows knit together in concern.

Of course this was how I’d run into him: morning-after hair thrown into a frustrated bun, floor-wrinkled clothes, unbrushed teeth.

Raccooned mascara, runny nose, tear-streaked cheeks.

“It’s me, Dennis. Matthews. Your, uh, mailman,” he said as he approached.

“I know who you are,” I sniffed. Dennis Matthews.

The name behind those eyes and that kind smile.

“I just had no idea you were a fashion icon.” We both took in his thick, fuzzy Fair Isle sweater, which looked like it had been knit by someone on acid.

He wore a navy peacoat, wide open, revealing blue-and-white striped shorts (shorts, in this weather) and thick rugby thighs.

Hello. Square-toed cowboy boots on his feet, a flat-brim Buffalo Bills hat on his head.

“I’m color-blind, no joke,” he said with a spin.

We both started laughing. The January cold had left his nose a little red, his cheeks a little rosy, like a kid in a schoolyard.

His eyes were blue, I confirmed for myself.

He was dressed like a Phish fan headed to an anniversary concert in Aspen, but my god, was he handsome.

I wiped my face. “Sorry you’re catching me like this. It’s been quite the morning.”

Dennis was shaking his head at my apology. He pulled a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin out of his pocket and handed it my way.

“Bad report cards?” He nodded toward the doggy day care. “I just dropped off my own pup for the day. Already bracing myself for the feedback about her gas issues.”

I started to crack up through the tears. “Something like that. What kind of dog? What’s her name?”

Dennis smiled, proud. “A rescue pit bull. Georgie. She’s the love of my life.” He showed me a photo on his phone’s lock screen, which was cracked.

“Aw, she’s beautiful,” I said. The gray dog’s smile comforted me even through a cell phone.

“Can I walk you home?” he asked. “I’m going right past your building.”

When I raised my eyebrow up at him, he held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t mean that to sound like a stalker. But I do deliver your mail, rememba?”

That time, the laughter stopped the tears for good.

“Right,” I said. “Well, in that case.” We headed in the direction of my building.

“So, do you live around here, too?” I was grateful to him for pulling me out of the terrible dark hole of thoughts I’d been going down.

I tried to shake it off and focus on the world around me, on the bright, perfect winter day.

“I do,” he said. “Grew up in Queens, but I inherited my grandma’s place here a few years ago and now it’s my home.”

“I knew that accent was from Queens,” I said with a smile. “One of my best friends from college grew up there. She’s in Boston now. You sound like her dad.”

“Oh, thanks, her dad.”

“It’s a compliment!”

We played the name game to no avail, although he said her mom’s maiden name sounded familiar. Then the topic came back around to our neighborhood again: how great it was, how much we both enjoyed living here.

“Chelsea’s the best,” I said, thrilled to grasp onto a subject that never failed to bring me some joy.

“It’s like the West Village’s cool big sister.

All the brownstone charm, but so much more low-key.

You don’t have to walk through hordes of people taking pictures of the Friends apartment or Carrie Bradshaw’s stoop. ”

“Who’s Carrie Bradshaw? Like a big pop star or something?”

“Nononono,” I said, bracing my hand on his arm before realizing I didn’t know him like that. “You are so sweet, and I will just have to leave your purity intact by not answering that question.”

He covered his face in faux bashfulness.

“I’m not exactly the best with celebrities and stuff like that.

Helps with delivering their mail, since I never have any idea who they are until a buddy tells me after, like, ‘Ohhh, I can’t believe So-and-So’s on your route, what’s she like?

’ You know, I’ve seen you around the neighborhood,” he said.

“Before running into you in the lobby. Had no idea you were the Sunny Greene who receives like, eight hundred packages a week.”

“Occupational hazard,” I laughed. “For both of us, it sounds like.”

“Ahh, I don’t mind it. Especially now that I know who Sunny Greene is.”

I looked down at the mascara-streaked Dunkin’ napkin. I suddenly felt extremely shy. But also kind of giddy? Get a grip, Sunny. He’s your mailman. He probably has to be nice to you out of some code of mailman conduct .

I reached to fill the silence as we continued to stroll down the block. “So, um, big Dunkin’ guy?” I waved the napkin.

“Nah, that was a special occasion. Needed some Munchkins.”

“You can tell a lot about New Yorkers by where they choose to inhale their caffeine in the morning, you know,” I said, dying inside at the thought of this sweet, giant man ordering tiny doughnut holes.

“I usually just go to the corner truck on Tenth and Twenty-Third.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “What does that say about me?”

“Ummm,” I thought for a moment. “It says you’re old-school. Classic. Traditional, but unfussy.”

Dennis pretended to pull at a pair of fake suspenders and made a Robert De Niro-y happy frown. “Ooh la la!” I gave a polite laugh. Who was this guy?

“But it also means you’re missing out on my favorite coffee spot, just down the street.”

“Oh really? How do you know I haven’t been?”

“I don’t, I guess! I could be talking to a regular, for all I know, forgive me.”

“You’re excused,” he said.

“Thank you. Okay: Intelligentsia at the High Line Hotel?”

He started laughing. “No, you’re right. I’ve never had their coffee. Seems a little fancy.”

“Getting fancy coffee is the whole point of ‘getting coffee,’” I said. “Otherwise it’s the same as what you have at home.”

“Okay, okay, I see you. I think in that case I’d go for a hot chocolate.”

I looked up at him. He was dead serious, and so, so cute. “Okay, Buddy the Elf.”

“That’s my other job,” he said, with zero smirk or anything. Just deadpan. Then he turned it on me. “What about you? What do you do for work? Must be something bougie if you’re Ms. Fancy Coffee.”