Last night I was at All Time once again with Juju, which we’ve decided is our place. We sat there with our legs crossed, whispering about why do you think they sat us at the bar and I think two of the servers are catalog models.
We talked about other things too. We came up with some diagnostic questions for every relationship: are you happier or sadder now? Is it (life) easier or harder? Do you like it better than being single? Are the questions you have about your self-image any different than they were when you were single?
We sat on these high chairs with our legs crossed, and it’s one of those friendships where the knee you grab when you have a strong feeling isn’t yours, and you don’t need to use the little plates they give to each of you for sharing food. We pulled out a notebook and made diagrams, as usual, this time by candlelight. That restaurant must spend thousands of dollars on wax every week. We let the bartender know she could roll our food slowly and sat there for just under three hours, taking our time picking the figs and tarragon out from among the glistening tomatoes and soaking every last crumb of goat cheese in vinegar. Everything was delicious and salty. Cold fish and the last of the summer tomatoes and figs, goat cheese and roasted corn and charred cabbage in a bed of stewed beans and wet herbs, and what I can only assume were Harry’s Berries in a bowl of loose cream and vanilla bean custard. I wanted a second one, but we were too full. We should have ordered it anyway.
I think about Juliet whenever I start to hate myself for thinking about love. I love that she thinks about it and want to know what she’s chewing on. It seems good to try to turn that curiosity onto myself. She drove me back to Ethan and Elvira’s with the roof open and the windows down, and the air felt warm and wet the way it often does in October in LA, and seemingly everyone hates except for me. I let it wash over me.
We turned the corner near the Beverly Hills Equinox Sports Club and I started to mourn that there wasn’t enough time to get to everything; there never will be, I’m guessing. We parked outside the apartment and held hands, staring out at the road, savoring our last threads and sharing this feeling of anticipatory girlhood that I suspect never quite goes away, at least not until your parents die, and then you’re really a woman. We’re always in puberty, we concluded, and then we said I love you and goodnight and I came into the house.
I let Ethan and Elvira tuck me into bed on their couch with a burrito for a nightcap. I fell asleep before Elvira finished her crossword… piles of used limes on the table, Ethan at his desk charging my brick before my flight, air thick and heavy from an evening spent detangling his hair. They finished my laundry for me with the lights low.
This morning I went for a walk before anyone woke up. Elvira washed four apples for me and kept the stickers for her notebook. While I folded my clothes she sat on the couch and carefully rubbed all the adhesive residue off of each apple, and now I’m eating one on the plane to DC.
Tomorrow I will decorate a cake, and then I will eat pork shoulder braised in apples with my friends. Monday morning I have flight back to California, but that is Sunday’s problem.
