Page 3 of Below the Shadow of the City

SATURDAY, LATE AUGUST

I’m supposed to meet the pink-haired bass-playing barista at a gay bar in Williamsburg I’ve been to dozens of times. Before I open the door, I take a few moments on the sidewalk to compose myself. Dusk is quickly fading and I’m hoping the darkness obscures my identity for a few seconds while I flip the breaker switches and reset to the better version of myself.

Each one of these dates makes it tougher to dig the old me out. She’s usually curled up in a corner of my mind, hissing and swiping and begging to be left alone.

Once I get my bearings and enter, the barista is easy to spot. Her pastel tresses whip about as she excitedly talks to a bartender, who, based on her mannerisms, is a good friend of hers. I step up and smooth out the miniskirt I chose to wear, forgetting I’d spend the night precariously perched on a barstool. I’ve completely blanked on her name, Margo told me when I’d agreed to the date, but it’s long escaped me. In hindsight, I should have asked for a refresher yesterday, but yesterday I was still gripping onto the hope that she’d cancel entirely. Can’t disappoint a date that doesn’t happen.

I’d preoccupied my pre-date anxiety last night with horror movies and an order of Chinese food so large there were multiple forks in the tied up smiley face printed plastic bag the delivery person handed me. I passed out on the couch until two in the morning and then dragged myself to bed, only waking up when a symphony of car horns jolted me from a chicken lo mein and crab rangoon induced coma.

“Hi, you must be Sigrid!” She exclaims as I approach, I softly smile with an air of confusion.

“Celia,” she grins and points to herself. Right, Celia.

She hops up from her barstool and embraces me in a hug. Bubbly, effervescent energy oozes out of her. I think my Chinese food from last night might make a reappearance.

“Margo totally undersold you, you’re even cuter in person!” She exclaims.

“That is incredibly flattering,” I blush. “You are stunning, seriously. And your hair is honestly incredible.” Celia flips a few strands over her shoulders and twirls them between her fingers. She makes a joke about how it’s her natural color, and we exchange the baseline compliments first dates give to one another in the initial moments of meeting.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, Margo did good on my behalf. She is stunningly gorgeous, a face with sharp angles and glimmering green eyes, brightened by her novelty hair color. Gorgeous, but someone I’d never see again after tonight.

Even though she’s all of the things I would want from a date, I already know how this is going to end. I swiftly order a beer and clutch it in my hands so tightly I fear I may shatter the glass.

The blur of dates I’ve gone on in the last few months have grown to be physically painful. So much small talk, so much body language to try to decipher. And every single time I’m just putting off the inevitable.

My elbow slides further and further onto the bartop, I want to crawl underneath the counter and disappear into the ice maker.

Despite my discomfort, an hour flies by as Celia gregariously spills out every detail about her band (power pop with heavy 80s influence), her job (she loves latte art), her cat (a white Persian named Ginsburg), and her upbringing in small town Pennsylvania. Her anecdotes are amusing, and in an ironic twist I saw her band back at a bar near my apartment a year ago.

For anyone else, she would be an incredible partner. She’s funny, sweet, and appropriately excitable. But I can’t let myself think about any of those things. Because I can’t grow attached to Celia, just like I couldn’t grow attached to any of the other dates Margo has set up for me.

I tell myself I keep going on these dates to appease Margo and her endless pursuit of finding my true love. But I know beneath my hardened exterior a soft vulnerable piece of me hopes that maybe one of these dates will be different. And maybe Celia could be different, if I let her be.

“You’ve heard enough about me,” she says sweetly. “Tell me, what’s Sigrid’s story?” She rests her chin in her palms.

Who is Sigrid Larson?

She’s a former latchkey kid from Long Island who moved to Brooklyn the moment she turned eighteen in hopes that she’d fall into some cool alternative arts community. Instead, all she got was six years as a waitress, followed by four more as an executive assistant at a tech company, a decent apartment in Williamsburg that she can barely afford by herself, and a three year relationship that ended seven months ago. It had been the final nail in the coffin for any hope of true love.

“I’m not all that exciting, truly,” I chuckle uncomfortably.

The familiarity of my couch calls to me, I’m craving a bottle of cheap red and a night watching the traffic cross the Williamsburg Bridge from my fire escape.

She tilts her head innocently, backlit by the Christmas lights hanging from the bar. In this glowy lighting she looks like a fairy of sorts, her pastel pink locks glow with a magic that would enchant pretty much anyone.

On all of these first dates it feels like someone else is piloting my body. Everything feels clunky and weird and I forget how to be a person entirely. My subconscious seems to sabotage me. I want to act on my interest in her, she deserves to be spending her Saturday night with someone who might take her home or do the unthinkable, go on a second date with her. But some unknown force doesn’t let it happen.

“Margo told me you bake?” She quirks up the corners of her mouth with genuine intrigue.

Margo had omitted the fact that I used to bake. She failed to mention to Celia that I haven’t made anything beyond survival staples in seven months. My bodily composition is probably sixty percent buttered noodles with cheap shaker parmesan at this point. The burgeoning Instagram account that I used to lovingly nurture has all but been deactivated, and now might be my ticket to actual notoriety, but I can’t think of that right now.

I give Celia a half-honest answer about not having much time anymore, but I show her a few shots from the old well-lit, perfectly curated life I used to have. My answer must be satisfactory, because she gently drags her fingers across my forearm. I exhale. She’s trying. She’s sweet. But I don’t have it in me to let this go any further. Because the longer it goes on, the less I can lie to myself and pretend that I’m not genuinely interested in her.

More time and casual small talk pass between us. Once the clock ticks towards ten I can play the “it’s getting late, I had a long day,” card and make my escape. She doesn’t need to know I rolled out of bed at noon and spent the seven hours after waking not moving from my couch frozen with stress until I was on the verge of being late to this date.

Cotton candy Celia seems slightly dejected, but overall unaffected. She goes back to excitedly talking with the bartender while I silently exit through the mahogany door, eyes stinging. Cigarette smoke curls into my nostrils from the clusters of friends gathered around planning their next stop of the night.

Another swath of mist finely coats the city, and I’m ill-prepared for it. The eleven blocks to my apartment are hardly enough to warrant calling a cab, but my sleeves quickly stick to my arms from the rain.