Why Whine: Crushing
My days drag on with nothing happening, specifically on days when I’m off from work. I wake-up, have breakfast with Mom while Dad plays racquetball, then I trudge to my computer and slog through a million job applications for positions I have very little chance of getting but I try anyway. When I’ve had enough of that I mosey around the house, bothering my Mom and the cat, then pretty soon it's time to make dinner. After dinner, I go to my room and stare out the window and daydream. Often about things that make me happy, like Arden the stock manager’s smile. I wonder if he’s attached; I’ve never seen a ring on his finger. When I’ve had enough of torturing myself, I write quirky little tales of my imagination’s creation. They keep me sane, away from the television, and moderately content. Yet, in the back of my mind I can’t help but constantly ask when will my life start again?
Then one day, my routine is interrupted. It’s almost closing time and I’m mindlessly re-shelving books. Looking up from the endless row of self-help books, I see the ‘Weirdo-Will-You-Marry-Me’ guy. He sees me, smiles and waves, then walks to the cookbook section.
‘Ladies and gentleman, the time is now 9:45p.m. and we’ll be closing in 15 minutes,’ my co-worker announces over the intercom. ‘Please make your way to the registers to finalize your purchases.’ I continue my closing tasks, huffing and puffing as I straighten stacks next to stragglers who won’t budge an inch. A few glances around the store tell me my stalker is nowhere in sight.
10:15p.m. and three of my co-workers and I are standing outside waiting for the gates tobe lowered. We say our goodbyes and go our separate ways. Ten feet from the store gate, I’m lighting a cigarette when I hear someone screaming ‘Hey, hey,’ in my direction. I look around to see who’s being called, and a guy walking past tells me ‘I think that dude’s talking to you,’ and he motions in the opposite direction. Crossing the street with half a slice in his hand, is not a stranger, but my stalker.
‘Hi,’ I’m surprised to hear myself say.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going home,’ I reply, buttoning myself up tight, my lit cigarette dangling from my lips.
‘Come for a drink?’ He asks, taking a bite of his pizza.
I stare at him. Is he crazy.
‘What do you want from me?’ I ask.
‘For you to have a drink with me.’
‘Why?’ I ask in that bitchy way New York women can.
‘Because since we’re getting married, I thought it’d be a good idea for us to get to know each other. Also, I need something strong to wash down this awful pizza.’
Astounded, yet strangely amused and curious, I agree to the drink.
We’re sitting in one of the last East Village bars not to be overrun by NYU students and long-term let tourists. I’m enjoying a Tanqueray and tonic and he’s drinking a Guinness.
‘Are you English?’ I ask him.
‘No.’
‘Then what are you? At first I thought you were Australian, but your accent’s not quite right.’
‘Perceptive,’he replies, impressed.
‘My Dad loves rugby, and I’ve followed it religiously since I was five. I’m guessing you’re from a really good Rugby playing nation.’ Why am I sharing something so personal with a man I barely know?
‘Where is your Dad from?’
‘South Africa.’
‘I’m from New Zealand.’
‘I was so close! It’s like a World Cup final, isn’t it?’ I can’t believe how genuinely excited I am. My life is too boring.
A giant smile climbs across his face. ‘I really think you need to reconsider this whole not getting married bit.’
‘I thought I had no choice,’ I tease.
‘You’re right on that,’ he agrees.
If my face could noticeably turn red, I’d be a beet. I offer to get the next round to give myself time to regain composure.
I am more than a little tipsy. And four heavily poured Tanqueray and tonics, I couldn’t make it to the subway, so Oliver ‘call me Olly,’ got me a cab and rides with me all the way to my parent apartment on the Upper West Side. I think he said he was heading to Brooklyn.
I stumble into my parent’s home at 3:30 am. My parents and I never discussed a curfew and I’ve never been out this late. It’ll be interesting to see what they say in the morning.
‘What a night,’ I happily slur to myself, sloppily removing my clothes. As my body slumps into the bed, my last thought is ‘am I engaged?’
