by Laurie Graff
I arrived a few minutes past eight to find Edward in the waiting area. In an immaculate dark gray suit and red power tie he was the picture of a respectable New York lawyer waiting for one of his personally injured clients. I considered tripping over a chair and falling, just to make him feel at home.
“Karrie?”
“Edward? Hi! Here,” I said, handing him the envelope with the printout I had downloaded from the Internet. “I think you’ll find everything you need to know about pumps and women’s shoes in general,” I said, smiling.
Though his big smile back was kind of held back, I noticed the monogrammed E.S. on the cuffs of his shirt because his handshake hello had lingered on.
“Thank you, Karrie,” he said, slipping the envelope into that mysterious pocket sewn inside men’s suits. “I’ll review this later. Our table will be ready in a minute.”
“Great.”
Middle Eastern sounds and smells wafted through the curtained partition that divided the restaurant, and the waiting room from the dining room. We took our seats on the velveteen settee as I removed my raincoat, tucking the beret inside a pocket, and closing up my umbrella.
“I think it finally stopped,” I said, looking at the umbrella to indicate the rain.
“I’ll check these things for you, okay?”
I watched as his medium athletic self carried my stuff over to a woman dressed in a belly-dancing outfit at the coat check.
You read the essays of people online and they often share a piece of themselves in the writing they would only share with someone they felt a sense of connection, or intimacy with. Just because you both respond to what you read does not mean you will be able to connect, or access that intimacy from each other. But no matter what you think, you do show up expecting. The sight, the smell, the sound, the feel of the two of you together—live and in person—almost obliterates all that was said and all that was read before.
If you could connect, that background would serve as a delicious subtext. But if you could not, it would be as if all the emotions behind all those words you both had written never even existed. Without an in-person connect, everything else gets deleted.
“You’re having fun?” he asked when he returned.
“Yeah. I’m having fun. Are you?”
“It’s too soon to tell,” he said.
I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but I wasn’t quite sure.
“We can show you to your table now.”
I got up and followed the hostess while Edward walked behind and followed me. Our walk through the white gauzy curtains transported us not just out of the city, but out of the country into a new culture. The dimly lit room was tented. It was as if we had walked onto the set of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Sheaths, scarves, gilded paintings and lanterns adorned the restaurant, the white linen tables lit up with white candles.
Edward ordered a bottle of Shiraz and a waiter dressed as a sultan put a feast of different spreads and salads before us.
“Complimentary, on the house,” the sultan said to Edward, placing a round meat pie on the table and taking our order, or Edward’s—I let him order for me—before moving on.
“Dig in,” said Edward, cutting off a piece with his knife to put on his plate. “I think you’ll like this. Turkish pizza. It’s called lahmacun.”
“Lahmacun,” I repeated. “It’s good,” I said after tasting the textured, tomatoey meat on the thin crust.
He lifted his goblet. “To meeting.” We clicked our glasses and each took a drink. “You’re beautiful,” said Edward sincerely, and with a longing that almost seemed a bit sad.
“You’re kidding.” It was the last thing I thought he would say.
“You don’t think so? I bet you already know that.”
Oy vey, I thought. Here we go with the compliment that probably started downtown and has now made its way through Turkey.
“No, not that,” I said. “Not that I don’t...or that I do...” I brought my napkin up to my mouth as a polite way to check and see if my foot was dangling out of it. “Thank you, Edward. That’s, that’s nice. Just—”
“What?”
“Just that this...us, meeting this way, it’s kind of...difficult. And I like you, but I feel like I can’t find you,” I confessed.
“So let me help you,” said Edward, who after taking a drink and a breath proceeded to be delightful company, telling me the condensed but somewhat personal story of his life.
“Kate really didn’t want to work. She just wanted to be a stay-at-home wife and mother,” Edward said of his ex, as he cut into his lamb casserole. “The food here is very good,” he said, approvingly. “You seem to be doing okay with that.” Edward dipped his fork into my moussaka for a bite. “You mind?”
“Be my guest,” I said, as I dipped my fork into his lamb.
“You can really eat,” he said, chewing heartily.
“As opposed to what?”
“You really eat a lot for someone so slight. Where do you put it?”
“In here,” I said, pointing to my brains.
I did eat a lot. At meals. And I didn’t eat much between them, but I didn’t want to discuss food. I wanted to hear more about Kate so I used food to steer the discussion back in the direction I wanted it to go.
“Did Kate have to watch her diet a lot when she was doing ballet?”
“Kate. Yes.” Edward was back. “And she stopped watching when she stopped dancing. Good cook though. Anyway, after dancing she had to do something and she hated interior design and became bitter and a bit of a bore.”
“Well,” I began, wondering if that description was really more about him. “Sounds like she would have been a great mom,” I said.
“I wanted an equal partner.”
“A woman running your home and raising your kids is pretty equal, don’t you think, Edward? I mean, it’s a traditional setup, but I confess to being a pretty traditional girl myself.”
“How? You’re in your forties, you’ve never married, you live alone in Manhattan and you pursue a career in acting. How are you traditional?”
“Well, when it comes to the American Dream I don’t believe in the white picket fence, but I do believe in the white picket co-op,” I said. “I just think since we’re different, men and women, and we’re going to stay that way, the traditional roles work the best. But I don’t believe in holding each other back. In the world of the white picket co-op you allow each person their dreams.”
“We had our moments. One really nice thing about being married to a shiksa from Nebraska was always having a real Christmas. But it’s been four years and it’s time to get on with my life. What about you, Karrie?”
By that point we had polished off a few more courses, ending with the baklava, while a Turkish belly practically danced her way right up the nostrils of Edward’s nose. We decided to walk home, walking all the way down Broadway from Hundredth Street, as we told tales to entice and tales to entrap.
“I think you would be happier being married,” said Edward, waiting for the light to change at Seventy-ninth, stepping in front of me to take the splash of a cab speeding down the street through the remaining puddles.
“So you are a traditional kind of guy, after all,” I said of the sweet and chivalrous act.
“And look, he managed to miss me!” said Edward, smoothing his hands over his perfect suit that had miraculously remained dry. “Cabbie probably knew I’d sue him for damages,” he said, seductively pulling me into him. “I’m very conservative, in general, but I do pay a lot of money for my suits.”
“Let me feel the fabric.” I ran my fingertips down his sleeve. “Nice,” I said, as he reached for my hand.
Edward pulled me down on one of the benches on the little island in the middle of Broadway. He wrapped his hand around mine, running his fingertips over the top of my hand and under my palm. I looked down, watching the movement and the motion, jutting my head back to get a good look at his eyes.
“Ouch!”
A sudden pain soared through my neck. It felt like I might have pulled something. “Wait a sec. It hurts.”
Edward gently massaged my neck. It let go along with the rest of me.
“You might benefit from having a boyfriend,” he whispered into my ear.
“Oh yeah? Of the traditional sect or the non?”
“You J-Spot girls need to know everything, don’t you?” Edward said, and then he kissed me.
It was either romantic, or it wasn’t. You either remembered the first time someone kissed you, or you didn’t.
And that’s what I thought about all night when I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about Edward. I liked him, but felt somewhat troubled. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, the troubled part, so I’d put it aside, placing it on the empty pillow next to mine so I could relive the untroubled kiss.
“I thought about you last night. Sent you an e-mail this morning,” he said when he called the next day. I was happy to discover Edward had felt the same. “Did you get it?”
“I didn’t even get up till an hour ago. And I didn’t go online.”
“Right. You live on actress time,” said Edward, while I turned on my computer to see what Edward had written in his mail.
“What time is it on your lawyer watch?”
“I’m at work,” he said. “Getting ready for a case. In fact, I came off the lawyer clock right now because I don’t have any billable hours allotted for dating.”
“You used them all up?” I asked, seeing that Edward had written me three e-mails starting at 8:11 that morning. By 10:59 he wrote he was on his way to work and left the number for me to call him there.
“I know you’re a traditional type so you probably don’t like to call men. Is that correct?”
“Guilty as charged. Not at the beginning. But I do like to call back,” I said, calculating that Edward had told me over dinner that he had found himself in his office thinking he needed to get a life on a Sunday. Today, a Saturday, had also found him at work. I did the math and it added up to the possibility that he could be the type that worked seven days a week.
“But you didn’t call me back,” said Edward.
“Do you want to hang up and I will?”
“Do you want to go out later instead?”
“Okay.”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, and hung up.
“Something is off,” I told Jane two weeks later on a shopping jaunt to an opening of a new children’s store in my neighborhood Janey thought worth the trek into the city. “This is cute,” I said, holding up a little orange-and-white poncho that was scaled down to fit Eve, who was playing in the supervised play area of the store.
“Is he insecure? He sounds insecure,” said Jane, chasing after Eve, who was chasing an inflatable Nemo so she could hold the poncho against her to see if it would fit.
“Kind of insecure, but who isn’t? Self-contained. Sort of abrupt, overly sensitive. Interesting. Quick. Very smart. Uh—sexy.”
“But?” asked Jane.
“I don’t exactly know yet and I’m afraid I’ll find out. I like him. It’s not like he’s a prince and I could care less. But I need him to be a good guy. You know...a good frog.”
“So you do like him. I haven’t heard you like anyone in a while. That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Kar?”
“It could be. It really could. Let’s hope so,” I said.
It most definitely felt like it was when Edward and I sat entwined in the movies that night. Throughout the film his tantalizing, feathery touch kept me on the edge of my seat. It found its way up my arm, under my neck and around my collarbone before moving down my bare leg back up under my skirt and along the inside of my thigh.
When the lights came back on, I felt a dozen eyes on us of women whose seats surrounded ours. But I moved closer to Edward, not caring what anyone thought or saw, hungry to live my own movie moment. Loving the feel of Edward and I close, him breathing his kiss into mine, lips to lips, light, gentle, entrancing.
I wished that I could make something along the lines of a public service announcement telling the women if I could be sitting there tonight with Edward—Edward who I didn’t even know two weeks ago, Edward who I had met online—then indeed, anything was possible.
A few nights later, Fred and I were leaving MTW when my cell phone rang and it was him. Still at work, a little after nine, just calling to say hi. It was the first time he called me directly on my cell.
“So what does the stalker want now?” asked Fred, holding open the door on the lobby level as we left the building, walking out into the somewhat chilly night air. It was the end of September, and the first night you felt as if it had fallen into autumn. Fred was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and I had gone all out, grabbing a denim jacket to put on over a cotton sweater.
“He hung up,” I told Fred as we walked towards Ninth Avenue.
Every day from the get-go I’d have messages on my machine that said, “It’s Edward, just calling to say hi.” I was happy he was calling, but found it confusing when I called back and he had to go. He wouldn’t talk. He just wanted to say hi.
“Hey, where’s a Citibank, Fred? I don’t think I have more than a ten in my wallet,” I said, walking to where I thought I had seen an ATM. “He got a phone call from L.A. It’s still business hours there.”
“Maybe he’s a workaholic because he keeps the same hours as businesses everywhere. Global warning, Missy!” said Fred, who was happy I felt chemistry, but hoped I heeded the message he felt the phone calls had signaled.
“Maybe he—” My phone rang. “Excuse me,” I said to Fred. “Yes, Edward,” I spoke into the phone, recognizing the number, not needing to recognize the voice.
“Meet me tonight. Now. At a hotel.”
“What happened?” asked Fred, who could not hear what Edward had said but heard my exhale, as it rushed through my body and out my mouth when I heard Edward’s words. Meet him at a hotel? We weren’t even lovers. But it sounded so romantic.
I looked over to Fred. Okay, I did have doubts. Should I clear them up before we became lovers? Yes. But what if I couldn’t? I knew. Maybe the doubts would get cleared up in bed after we became lovers! Gee, I missed the days when I could talk myself into that one. I thought of Edward’s tantalizing touch. Well, until it felt clear I would have to pass on being lovers. And, I would. Just not in this lifetime.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” shrieked Fred as I left him flat, ducking into the first available cab. “And that’s not much!”
The taxi shot across Times Square to the Algonquin, the legendary hotel where Dorothy Parker downed martinis at the Round Table; her romantic angst giving way to great literature. In her day if a woman my age was single she was considered a spinster. And if she was single and sexual she was considered a whore. What would Dorothy have thought of women now?
When it came to men I didn’t even know what I thought of us. Aside from the workplace, I had to wonder how many gains we had really made since the time of “liberation.” Having come of age during the woman’s movement I had never known any difference. But I always wonder what it was really like before. And though our meet was for no more than a drink, as we sipped Courvoisier tucked away in the corner of the Blue Bar, I felt grateful to Ms. Parker for her part in paving the way.
“Dorothy could have been the perfect woman for me,” said Edward. “She was brilliant, independent, a writer, made a nice living.” He listed Dorothy’s positive qualities with confidence. His. He had me where he wanted me. Relaxed, Edward kissed me ever so slightly as he spoke.
“She also wrote A Telephone Call, so just keep that in mind next time you get on my case about the calling thing,” I murmured as I ever so slightly kissed him back.
“God, I like you, Karrie!” Edward practically declared, pulling me in close, excited. “Yes, the girl in it waits and waits and you never know if he calls her or not. She should have just called him instead of waiting.”
“
Somehow it doesn’t work that way.”
“Sure it does,” insisted Edward.
I didn’t answer, hoping never to find out that I was right and he was wrong. In a new relationship when it came to calling, men called you when they wanted to. And didn’t, when they didn’t. Were there exceptions? You bet. Could you call them? Absolutely. In the end would it make a difference? Nope! But you could always pretend that it did.
“If she wrote that piece now the girl wouldn’t just be sitting by the phone. She’d be checking her machine, checking e-mail, calling voice mail, looking up the missed messages on her cell phone...”
“Going through the list of caller IDs,” said Edward. “I don’t even use an answering machine at home. I just review the caller IDs.”
“I’m glad you told me that. Now I know I can never call you and hang up.”
“You don’t do that? You do that?”
“I used to. I just stopped.”
I leaned back in my chair wishing we were in a room upstairs.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I bet that you can actually guess,” I said, leaning back, far back, my back up against the wall.
“I want to feel you,” said Edward, his voice dissolving softly in my ear. “I haven’t behaved like this in...” He suddenly jumped. “Hey. I’m a lawyer in a public place.”
“Prove it,” I said, sitting up. “Show me your briefs!”
“You...” Edward gazed into my eyes. “This is great. Hey, how would you like to go for a ride in the country and see the leaves change?” Edward paused. “Maybe we shouldn’t plan dates ahead. Maybe we should do one at a time.”
“One date at a time,” I said, loving what seemed to lie ahead. “Maybe you can show me where you grew up? Do you have family left in Pennsylvania?”
“My brother’s in New Rochelle, but I don’t really ever see him.”
