Page 2 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I think you’re right. He works at Gap now. He swapped safety pins for khakis.”
“Seriously?” She nodded and we both cracked up. “He was so anti-establishment. What a sellout.”
“Just don’t judge Gabriel until you’ve gotten to know him,” she cautioned on our way out the door. “He’s the real deal.”
“So he can actually singandplay a guitar?”
“Yes.” She waggled her brows. “And he’s a cute boy.”
Annika’s idea of a cute boy vastly differed from mine. I went for the quiet, nerdy guys who hid their genius behind thick, black-framed glasses.
Annika went for the bad boys who always looked like they needed a shower and an exorcism.
And I never,everwent for musicians. Not only because I had daddy issues, but because I didn’t trust them. They’re driven by their egos, and they want to be adored. You’ll never come first with a musician.
But Annika was crazy about this guy she met last month. A chance encounter on her way home from the dance studio that culminated at four a.m. when they drunkenly stumbled into Leshko’s for coffee and greasy breakfast food.
I had yet to meet this mystery boy, but tonight was the night.
Gabriel had a gig at Monks Café on St. Mark’s Place, right around the corner from our apartment.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you…” Annika linked her arm in mine as we slogged through the drizzle, skirting puddles and crack vials on the garbage-strewn sidewalk. When we turned onto Avenue A, a man clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag stumbled out of the doorway, unzipped his fly and urinated on the graffitied wall.
Annika scrunched up her nose. “Ugh, that’s the third time this month.”
If I had a nickel for every time I’d witnessed public urination, I’d be able to quit my day job.
“Gabriel asked if you’d make him a shirt,” she said. “I wore this dress two weeks ago and he’s madly in love with it.”
To hear Annika talk, Gabriel was madly in love with everything.
I made the dress for her 22ndbirthday. A collage of textiles sewn together with silver thread. She looked stunning in it, but Annika could wear a shapeless burlap sack and still look amazing.
Her hair shimmered like moonlight and her skin had a dewy glow. I was neither dewy nor glowing.
I always thought I looked a little bit dirty.
Monks Café was a tiny hole in the wall with sponge-painted brick walls, creaky wood floors and a few tables scattered around the room.
It was a haven for writers, artists, and musicians—the kind of place where you could order a cappuccino and spend all day reading a book or the newspaper without anyone bothering you.
My mom and I used to hang out here on cold winter days when the radiators in our apartment hissed and clanked butdidn’t emit any heat. Sean, the owner, served us Irish stew from a crockpot.
By day it was a coffeehouse, and at night they hosted poetry readings and live music. The “stage” was a spot along the back wall where the waitstaff cleared away the tables.
Tonight, there were only about a dozen people in the room, including us. Not exactly a crowd.
“I’m so excited.” Annika grabbed my arm and dragged me to the bar strung with Christmas lights next to the glass pastry case. “You’re going to be blown away.”
I bit my tongue and stifled the urge to remind her that she’d said the same thing about Dick.
Annika bummed a cigarette from the barista who served us bottles of Rolling Rock and rang it up as cappuccinos with extra cream. Sean didn’t have a liquor license.
We passed the cigarette back and forth and drank our beers while Annika stared at the front door, waiting for her rock star to turn up.
That was another thing about musicians. They always kept you waiting.
Two more bummed cigarettes later, the door flew open and a guy with a guitar charged in—late. Annika passed me the cigarette and ran right into his arms.
