Page 29 of Like a Love Story
Shut up, Judy. You sound like a freak. Avoid culinary and homosexual topics immediately.
“Not that you seem gay at all, by the way,” I say quickly. “It’s just the Madonna thing.”
“I suppose I like what she has to say,” he says haltingly.
“Your dad died, so you were raised by a strong woman, and it sounds like your sister is intense, so two strong women in your home. It’s obvious why you’d like a strong woman like... Madonna.” I was about to saya strong woman like me, but what kind of conceited thing to say is that?
Change the subject, Judy.
“It was so nice of Art to tell you what I like,” I say. “He’s a really great friend.”
“Yes, he is,” he says. “A great friend, to you.”
The way he saysto youhas a sting to it. Maybe something did happen between the two of them. Maybe they just don’t like each other. But that can’t be a deal breaker. I can’t give this guy up because he and Art don’t like each other.
We talk for an hour, about his sister, who sounds badass and hilarious. She would often come home from clubs when Reza was waking up. About his mother, who must be tough as steel. It’s so obvious how much he loves her and wants to make her happy. I tell him about my parents, about how typical they are, and how they’ve sacrificed their lives to give me a life that I don’t even want. How fashion means so much to me. And Uncle Stephen—how without him, I wouldn’t even be me. I’d be someone named Ernestine Carol, or Carol Ernestine.
He’s the one who asks for the check. And when the waitress brings it, he insists on paying. “A real gentleman,” she says, not to him, but to me, like she’s telling me how rare a real gentleman is.
Oh, I know, fabulous waitress.
After Reza pays, he excuses himself to the bathroom, and the waitress lingers. “You’re glowing,” she tells me. “You don’t glow like this when you come in with your other friend.”
“Am I?” I ask. “I guess it’s because my other friend is gay.”
“You’re also looking gorgeous tonight,” she says. “I love your dress.”
I love downtown. I belong here. “Do you think he likes me?” I ask conspiratorially.
“Definitely,” she says. “Body language, baby. He was leaning in. His hands were on your side of the table most of the time. His feet were too.”
“Really? I didn’t even notice.”
Of course you noticed, Judy. Why are you lying?
She takes Reza’s money and heads to the back. When Reza returns, we step outside. The waitress’s words run through my mind. As we walk, I try to observe his “body language.” He walks next to me, but not so close we’re touching. His hands are in his pockets, nowhere near mine. But then, at one point, his foot grazes mine. “Oh, sorry,” he says.
Maybe he did that on purpose. Maybe he was communicating his desire to touch you with this accidental kick.
“I think we should get ice cream,” he says. “Since you love it. And I love it, too.”
I smile, really excited, like we have something highly unusual in common, as if 99 percent of the world doesn’t love ice cream.
He gets chocolate and coconut. I get mint chocolate chip and French vanilla. As we eat, we pass a street vendor selling jewelry, sunglasses, and hats. We stop and browse. I throw a beret on him, and he laughs. “I look like a fool,” he says.
“No, you look adorable,” I say. “Like an existentialist.”
He puts the beret back in its pile, unconvinced.
“Hey, could I make you over?” I ask.
“Make me over into what?” he asks.
“You know, like, make clothes for you. If I made clothes for you, would you wear them? I promise they will be very cool, and cut to perfection.”
He looks at me with surprise. “I would really like that,” he says.
My eyes fall on some pins the vendor is selling. Tiny laminated fish, one beady eye staring out through the plastic. “Are those, um, real fish?” I ask.
