“So,” I started my story, “my grandparents are these famous Russian poets, very well known. Poetry so depressing you want to crawl into a fetal position and hold yourself after reading them. My dad is a professor of literature at university and my mother is also a poet. They’re all very cultured. They all had very high expectations of me.”
He was listening to me intently, and it dawned on me that I’d never told anyone this story before.
“So instead of becoming a professor or the next Donna Tartt, like they all wanted, I became a magazine features writer. I remember the moment that I showed them my first published article, it was on . . .” I started laughing at the memory. “On . . .” I tried again but the laughter was still going. “On how to find the G-spot.” I finally managed to get it out, way too loudly, and a couple of people turned and looked at me in horror. “You should have seen their faces.”
Alex burst out laughing again. “It was probably the same look on my parents’ faces when I told them what my specialty was going to be.”
We continued to laugh together. “God, we’re both so childish!” I hooted.
“We’re such rebels,” he said, picking up the bottle again, but it was quickly pulled from his hand and whisked away.
“I think I’d better take this away.” Our bartender appeared out of nowhere and whisked the bottle of tequila from us. We both protested, almost falling off our barstools while trying to grab it back from him.
“Give it back!” I wailed, but he turned around and shook his head at me. “You’re a mean, mean man,” I said to him, a distinct slur to my speech. “We’re quite drunk, aren’t we?” I looked over at Alex, who was slightly fuzzy around the edges now.
“That would be my medical opinion,” he said, trying not to slur his words as much as I was. His cheeks were a rich, ruddy color now, his hair was messy and he looked how I felt.
“Soooo,” I said, pointing at the magazines, “why are you reading women’s magazines?”
“These . . . well, when Connie moved out, these were the only things she left behind.”
“So you’ve been carrying them around because they remind you of her?”
“No, I’ve been using them to figure out what happened between us. Where the hell I went wrong, and also, to try and get over her.”
I looked at him blankly. “You’re turning to women’s magazines for that?”
“Look.” He flipped one open. “Ten Ways To Get Over Your Ex.” He pointed at the article and I dissolved into laughter again. I couldn’t help it. Because I knew that behind that article was probably a totally dysfunctional woman in love with her neighbor, and desperately making up the last four steps, because she’d run out of ideas at six.
“What?” he asked.
“I write articles just like that,” I said. “And look at me, I’m a total mess. You wouldn’t take relationship advice from me if I was the last person on Earth, would you? And, news flash, those things are all totally made up too. It’s not like we’re experts. Take my many literary works of genius on the G-spot, for instance. I mean, just how many ways can you set about finding the thing? It’s not like you needGPS coordinates. It’s not like you’re going to get lost on your way down there . . .” I cleared my throat and put on an official-sounding voice with an American accent, like the lady from Google Maps. “At the belly button, go south. If you reach the knees, you’ve gone too far!”
Alex’s eyes widened in recognition, he clicked his fingers together and then flipped one of the other magazines open and held the page up for me. I tried to focus my boozy eyes on the words.
“The Good Girls’ Guide To The G-Spot,” I read out loud. “Exactly! I mean, how many articles can there be on it? Does anyone have anything new to say about it? The only thing that could ever be potentially newsworthy about the G-spot is if it moved out of its current location and settled inside the belly button. Now that would be an article!”
I waved my arms in the air passionately. “None of those things work. You should not believe everything you read in magazines, trust me.”
“Well, I’m here because of what I read.” He pointed at step two of the Ten Ways To Get Over Your Ex article and started reading. “ ‘Jump On A Jet Plane. Stop wallowing in pity on your couch. You need a change of scenery. Why don’t you book a ticket for an exotic trip abroad? Treat yourself to sun, sand and cocktails, and maybe even a cute Swedish masseuse.’ ” He stopped reading and looked up at me. “Hence I’m here. Although, I’m not totally sold on the Swedish masseuse.”
I laughed and shook my head at this poor misguided man. “These things don’t work,” I said again, tapping my hand on the magazine. “Okay, what does the next one say?” I pulled the magazine away and started reading. “ ‘Number Three. Burn, Baby, Burn.’ ” I rolled my eyes. It was the kind of title I would have come up with. I continued. “ ‘It’s time to light that match and get rid of everything that reminds you of him. That photo you’ve been keeping in the back of your wallet or that item of his clothing that you’ve been secretly hanging onto. And if you don’t have anything, write his name down on a piece of paper and toss it into the flames! As you watch the smoke rise up, imagine him disappearing into the sky and never coming back again.’ ”
I looked at Alex blankly. “Are you kidding me? That would never work.” I slapped the magazine closed and dropped it onto the bar counter with a thud.
“How do you know if you haven’t tried it?” Alex asked.
“That is a terrible argument,” I quickly jumped in. “I don’t need to try something to know it’s not going to work, just like I don’t need to buy that belt that you wear that promises to freeze your fat off from the shopping network to know it’s a waste of money and will not freeze my fat.”
“I dare you.” His eyes twinkled. “Write his name on that serviette over there and let’s take it onto the beach and burn it.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Serious as piles.” He grinned. “Colorectal humor there,” he said with a silly, adorable smile. He passed me his green highlighter and pushed a serviette into my hands.
