They say revenge, like a nice bottle of Chardonnay, should always be served cold.
Sarah and I met in grad school. Never really had much in common back then. She was the typical overachiever, the one everyone resented. Talented, beautiful, smart, and from what I can remember, a total snob.
I on the other hand was barely making it through, working two jobs, pissing off half the school faculty.
“Ethan, if you don’t think this is interesting enough to actually stay awake, why don’t you go home?”
I bumped into Sarah a few years later. After a short chat, she pulled out her business card.
“We should get together sometime, catch up.”
I looked at the card. “New York Times Reporter.” Can’t say I was shocked. Even among Ivy-Leaguers she stood out, a demigod in a room full of mortals.
I gave her my number in return, suspicious, like a driver exchanging insurance information after a car accident. Two days later, a call. Would I like to go out for dinner?
We met at a West Village café at 8:00 pm, by 8:15 we had nothing to say. I think we both realized there were no sparks, no magic, no chemistry, just simple physics.
“Should we get the check?” I finally asked. I could tell she was thinking the same thing.
As I walked her home, not an unusual question.
“So do you keep in touch with anyone?”
I mentioned a few people, a blank look on her face.
“You?” I ask back.
Not one name I recognized.
“We didn’t hang out in the same circles, did we?” She says.
“Not really.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you were kind of a bitch.”
She stops, dead in her tracks.
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
I couldn’t believe it either. One of those moments in life you wish you had more control over the synapses between your brain and your tongue. I was expecting a well-deserved slap in the face, but instead, amusement in her eyes. Magic, ignited.
This weekend, I was invited to her wedding party. Great guy. Nice, smart, successful, handsome. A man. Sarah, a glowing bride. A Fifth Ave. apartment, an upper-crust toast, industrial-size diamonds, Degas' ballerinas stretching on the wall. The white of pearls, the smell of old money, a foreign land, Sarah’s world.
“How are you?” She asked as she made her way through the crowd.
“Uncomfortable, but happy to see you happy.”
“I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Oh, and your husband, hot.”
She laughs. By now she’s used to my thoughts shooting out of my mouth. She knows I mean well.
“Tell her what you just said to me,” she says pointing at a lovely woman standing next to her, gray hair, kind face, living under her eyes.
“If he weren’t straight,” I say, “I’d be all over him, like a cheap suit.”
The lady smiles.
“He is handsome isn’t he?”
“Sure is.”
“How do you know Sarah?”
“We went to school together.”
“How nice.”
“What’s your relation?”
“I’m her mother in-law.”
I look at Sarah. She’s laughing so hard, holding her stomach. I’d say something but the lovely lady is still in hearing range. So I mouth it instead.
“Bitch.”
After reading this, I felt like I was "write" there with you that night. :-P
Posted by: Writestuff | November 15, 2005 at 04:12 PM
Hahahahaha...I like Sarah! And I totally love Degas! I was looking at the picture thinking...God Damn it..I know who that artist is..but I just couldn't put my finger on it! They have lovely taste in art, and they are totally rolling in the dough!
Posted by: Roy | November 15, 2005 at 08:54 PM
Now, that's the type of friendship that can last through the ages. Although you were on the hit end of that joke, Sarah must have known her new mommy-in-law would handle the 'unexpected' well. Bless you for just dealing with it in stride.
Posted by: Fae Moon | November 19, 2005 at 06:44 PM
funny, moving and a poke in the eye....I just discovered your blog through HomoMojo blog review and have to admit that i am hooked. Ethan, you write with a certain verve and your entries are sharply observed,devastatingly funny and moving all at the same time. Keep it coming....
Posted by: The Promenader | November 20, 2005 at 09:44 AM