I’m at Fat Cat, watching a friend Jack (Colombian Israeli) play piano. But he’s not THE Israeli. I’ve forgotten that Israeli with the next Israeli. Funny how one night can do that. And yah, there seem to be a lot of them in my life.
It’s been hot. Deliriously hot. So hot I’m covered in salt and finally understanding of that idiomatic phrase “salty.”
I’m feeling like I live here. The guys at the next shuffleboard table are from Lebanon and they asked me about Union Pool and I totally told them about The Reverend.
I also know way too much about Christopher St. Oh, there’s Milk Bar. The place where I bought cookies on the way back from Dan’s. And then all the memories come back about him and why I showed up in this metropolis to begin with. If one thing he said or did resonates with me, it was this, “You’re a New Yorker, Vene. Ova up!”
Not holding his hand. Not sleeping til the third or fourth snooze of the alarm. Not sleeping in his arms all night. Not eating Hungarian. Not watching Mean Girls. Not any of it. But if I’m honest, all of it. But fuck him. The Israeli wiped him off the map and the second Israeli wiped them both off the table.
But for reals, one never really replaces the previous one. They’re all different. And I am different for having known them all. I’m here, aren’t I? Because of all of them.
Jack is sweet. And Michael is a trip. But I’m only here because Roy stole my heart and Dan opened it up to begin with.
Estoy enamorada. Si no con un hombre, pues con esta ciudad que me da la oportunidad de estar aquí. That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt to be ghosted. Yah, ghosted. It does. By someone you have given your heart to. Even if they said they’d never fall in love. And then they did. But you know what? It’s not the end of me. Not by half.
My heart is wounded right now. It’s suffering from something like heart failure. I’m broken. But fuck if I’m gonna lie down for anyone. Ever. Nobody deserves that. And so I soldier on. Like a metronome. That sometimes skips a beat.