Classic NYC Story

I don’t know what made me call him back, but I did, just about five minutes after I hung up the phone. I took the cordless and went upstairs to my room, pulled my robe a bit tighter around my body and hit the redial button. He answered with a raspy voice and on the first ring. There was a metronome beeping rhythmically in the background. I had disturbed his practicing. I told him I had a question for him, and that he was free not to answer if he so chose, but I requested that if he chose to answer the question, that he would answer honestly…

He walked in with his trumpet in his hand and set his fedora down on my table when he saw me. I immediately picked it up and started twirling it in my hands.

I can’t remember the boy’s name, actually. When I see him, I call him Trumpet.

Thanks so much, babe! You can feel free to have me over for cake anytime you please. I think this is cause for a celebration. Are you ready for it? Because I’m about to celebrate…

I was interrupted by the sound of two very small people yelling for what seemed like no purpose at all. What the fuck…? Oh, right, it’s Saturday Morning, isn’t it? Time to take the kiddies out to wherever it is the kiddies go on Saturday Morning. God dammit! Hush those kids! I thought. Don’t they know there are hung over people on the train?

I think it has finally occurred to me that I’m supposed to be single now… except that I’m not entirely certain what “single” means anyhow. Does that mean that any and everyone is fair game, or does it mean that I am fair game? I’m starting to think it’s more the latter than the former. [...]

He picked me up with his strong arms like I was a feather pillow (oh, let’s be real: I weigh like seven pounds), set me down gingerly on a low mattress and dominated me like a gentleman. There was no wine and no food and he chose to play the Doors of all fucking choices (which explains why the boy can’t sing, come to think of it) but in a moment of wrapping my arms and legs around that body which was so perfect Michelangelo could have sculpted it, I realized that this was exactly what I had wanted, and in fact was what I had wanted for the entirety of my sexual awareness since puberty: a large, gentle, and dominating man.

What’s a girl supposed to be looking for anyway? Love? Hardly. Not even “hardly.” Absolutely not… at least not now. It occurred to me that I know myself by my… generous (for lack of a better word) capacity to fall in love, but I might just be tapped out at the moment. I feel like a soldier (or a supersoldier, rather) who realizes that the fact that he’s not dead after the latest grueling defeat means that he must be strong and getting stronger, but still opts to spend a little time in the infirmary rather than proudly displaying his broken bones and bruised flesh in the next battle.

I ended up staying in the bathroom for over an hour. My nose and cheeks had swollen up to twice their normal size. My fingertips were swollen as well, and bright red. My stomach would not allow my legs to keep me perpendicular enough to cool my face down with wet paper towels, and eventually I crumbled into a corner, keeping my face near the cold tile floor and trying not to be conspicuous, even as several ladies came in and out of the bathroom wondering whose pants those were in the corner of the far stall.

Him: Did you try [insert moronically obvious solution here]?
Me: Yes, I tried that already. It doesn’t work.
Bubble thought: Because I would be sitting here like a dunce scratching my head without having tried that.

… in the same way that the Christians claim that demons tremble at the name of Jesus, I feel a slight trepidation every time I hear his name called, even if it’s in reference to someone who isn’t him: an actor, a ball player, a famous movie character… it doesn’t matter if I know the reference or not. His name was called. I tremble… briefly. My breath quickens… briefly…