Him: Goddamn this fucking party
Him: I’m going to be thinking about that all night
Him: But hey, if you try me again you might get lucky the next time
Him: Hope you find what you’re looking for tonight
Me: Thanks, hope you have a good night too
As I trot down the stairs to the subway, I tuck the phone into my pocket. I’m hoping the stranger actually means it, and I’m definitely going to try him again. But for now, the fantasy is enough to make me feel just a little bit lighter.
***
Thursday
I don’t want you to think that everything I do is depressing.
Sure, most of it is shit, shuttling back and forth between Manhattan and Brooklyn, prepping lectures and grading papers and just trying to keep my head above water. But every once in a while, instead of holing up in my apartment after I get home from class, I take my laptop over to Prospect Park and I find a place to sit and work where I can let it all slow down. I can still hear the city, the ever-present car horns and construction machinery, the hubbub of voices and the rush of traffic. But the sounds are softened by the trees, by the grass under my feet, and while it doesn’t work as well as the ocean used to do, it still helps me escape.
It’s about four in the afternoon, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a blanket at the edge of Prospect Park Lake. The angle of the sun is making it a little difficult to read the words on my laptop screen, but I don’t reallymind. I’m just typing a comment on the paper I’m grading when my phone buzzes beside me.
Him: So whatcha doing?
I open my phone’s camera and take a picture of the scene in front of me, golden sun glinting off the water, and I hit send. The stranger from last night has been texting me on and off all day, and I can’t say I’m not flattered. He responds with a heart-eyes emoji, and then sends a photo of his own — a pair of lean thighs in paint-splattered jeans, knees pressed up against an easel filled with pots of paint and a jar of dirty water. I send back my own fire emoji and wait, continuing to tap on the keyboard of my laptop.
Him: Can I say something weird?
Me: Sure
Him: You remind me of somebody
Me: Somebody you like, I hope
Him: Somebody I want to fuck, but can’t because he’s kind of a dick
I think of another pair of lean thighs, a pliant waist, a heartbeat that feels like a hummingbird under the press of my palm, and I think he’s not the only one.
Me: Confession: I am kind of a dick
Me: But that doesn’t mean we can’t fuck
Him: That’s what I’m counting on
Me: Name the day and I’m there
Maybe I don’t have to concentrate right now. I close my laptop and lie down on the blanket, my face turned up towards the blue sky. Only a couple more weeks of this, and all of my teaching commitments will be done. Then maybe, justmaybe, I’ll have a chance to breathe.
***
Friday
Him: OK so I can’t get you out of my head
I catch just a glimpse of the photo — a flat stomach and a pair of tight white briefs, the thumb of an elegant hand hooked into the waistband, dragging it down just enough to reveal the tip of — well, you get the idea. I press the phone to my chest, my face catching fire as I step into the corner, turning my back to the room. Setting up my laptop for my lecture can wait.
Me: Jesus fucking Christ dude, I’m standing in front of a room full of 20year olds
Me: You’re going to make me forget what my lecture is about
