The heatwave lifted and that was it. That was summer, hope you liked it, because now it’s over and that dull chill that spreads up your legs is back. The evening is gone too, replaced with the night, replaced with the rustle of crispy leaves and the pounds of thick-heeled boots on the sidewalk. The heat wave was here but now it’s gone, sooner and faster than you knew you wanted. The leaves are full of second thoughts, if you want them. You’re lucky they’re in season, just like sweaters and gently finged scarves. After the heatwave, the leaves get their moment. It fades fast, even faster than you’d think. And then you know what. Then the sky gets split in half. There are no more leaves. There are no second chances.
We’re back from Montauk. It was different in the summer. For starters, all the shops and restaurants are open. That’s encouraging. You can stroll along the beach barefoot. You can even go in the ocean. It’s expected. The motels tell you not to bring the towels to the ocean. Not that it matters. Those towels feel like sandpaper and the toilet paper is so thin you need half the roll to wipe. The pool tastes salty. The locals avoid the main drag and drive too quickly down the back roads. They don’t tell you how long the wait is at the pancake house and when you finally sit down and order coffee you realize it’s almost been an hour but you don’t care because the cheese omelet and blueberry short stack are so good. You can take a paddle boat on the pond. You can kill a bottle of Johnny Walker black label and wade into the Atlantic. The sand is rockier than you thought it would be. The water should be warmer. Your stomach should be flatter. But now, look at us, projecting. It’s August, not January. You can do whatever you want.
I should have introduced him to my grandparents.
Of course! Adorable relics of Jewish New York, my Grandma and Papa are favorites among my friends. They love afternoon cocktails, gossip, and their grandchildren. They gamble with loose change in weekly canasta games. They sit by the pool with their senior friends who skipped Florida this summer. And, like most grandparents, they adore bragging about their family to anyone who will listen.
[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]
Apologies are for Christians and Jews without backbones.
I’m sorry if I’m offending anyone.
“Are you just arguing with me,” he asked, eyebrows raised like a puppets, “for the sake of arguing?”
It was true. I wasn’t arguing to be difficult. How do you explain to someone the difference between being difficult and being self-righteous? What was I supposed to say, anyway? That I was arguing because I was correct and he was moronic?
“Are you sure?”
“You can’t accomplish anything by being combative,” he said.
“I know,” I responded. That was entirely my point.
A sandwich cut into two triangles means I love you in food. Everyone knows that. Don’t ever cut it in half to form two rectangles. Who are you cooking for, anyway? You might as well just order in.
They’ve made big advancements in gum. These days, no one has bad breath. I meet a guy I swear to god fifteen years ago would have a rip-roaring case of halitosis and he’s clean. He’s got bad teeth, but he’s clean. Well, what does that mean? I don’t trust it anymore. It’s thrown off my judegement.
I’m back. I’m here.
Not here, per se. Not in your computer. I’m here in New York. I’m back in New York, but different. A different spot. Higher up. Over there.
Upper West, but no one’s counting.
I went to Lake Tahoe and Napa Valley and I watched people wed and I drank vineyards’ wine and took a lot of planes. A lot for me. Two, really. There and back. Away I go.
Here I am.
So now I’m here, but a little to the left. Just there. Stop. Go up a little. There. That’s it.
Posted in City, Vignette
Tagged i'm back