by Moondi, Romi
“Why did I get THAT?” I said, still unable to look her in the eye.
“Oh, it can be for many reasons. Sometimes just from stress and too much activity, or not drinking enough liquids. Have you been stressed?”
I thought of the craziness at work, which had all stemmed from doing two jobs at once (you lazy man-heeled boss). Then I thought of how I started each day with that ever-present fear, the feeling that Erik would come to his senses and run away. Which of course was a solemn reminder that I’d soon be thirty and single.
Shit.
“A little stressed,” I finally admitted. “What can I take?”
The doctor closed the folder and reached behind her for a prescription pad. “I will give you these antibiotics. Very strong pills. But it will take fourteen days.”
My eyes suddenly darkened. “So I can’t drink alcohol for fourteen days?”
The doctor clutched her old-lady paunch and laughed. “Can’t drink, can’t go to work, can’t travel, can’t exercise, you have no energy! You are too dizzy. Stay in bed. Drink a lot of water. Very much water.”
Somewhere between “can’t travel” and “stay in bed” my eyes had completely glazed over. The doctor said more which I couldn’t even hear. I left the room in a daze, having no idea what had happened.
***
My laptop rested on my legs as I sat in bed, with the Expedia trip itinerary pulled up on the screen. With the phone to my ear I sobbed freely, as I listened to the voice on the other end.
“Are you aware there’s a fee for cancelling your trip?” said the Expedia agent.
Snot was dripping down my nose, in this rare and unadulterated sob-fest. I wiped it with the sleeve of my now even grosser “at home” sweatshirt.
“Just cancel it.”
***
The sun peeked into my room through a gap in the blinds. I squinted at it, then quickly switched sides in bed and pulled the blanket over my head.
The phone on my bedside table started to vibrate, but I didn’t even turn around to check.
I am currently unavailable.
***
That evening, when I awoke from my latest nap, my mother came into my room to serve me dinner. With my sister now married off, my parents had grown a bit needy in these last few months. Now that I was sick it was their perfect excuse to treat me like a baby. And for once I didn’t mind.
She set up a tray in bed, which had a bowl of daal (an Indian style soup) and some roti bread.
I stared at it unimpressed. “Why can’t you make me a normal can of soup? Like the tomato kind with the letters in it?”
My mother seemed appalled. “Soup from a can? No way! Cans give you cancer.”
I took a reluctant spoonful and scowled.
***
Later that night, I slowly sipped tea in bed with my blanket rolled down to my knees. My filthy sweatshirt was finally off, but my penguin-printed pyjamas had seen better days.
So had my hair.
And my face.
I placed the cup of tea on my bedside table, using a tattered book about Hieroglyphics as a coaster. I stretched a bit further to grab a notebook and a pen, since being stuck in bed didn’t mean I couldn’t write. Writing was the only thing I could deal with stress-free, unlike Erik who was probably a lost cause, and unlike my book sales which I’d totally avoided checking.
As soon as I started scrawling madly my phone began to vibrate.
Dammit!
It was Erik’s sexy face on the screen, the very face I’d been trying to avoid.
I listened for some noises downstairs, and heard my mom and dad yelling about the level of spice in the daal. It seemed loud enough to hide my conversation, so I reluctantly answered the phone.
“Hello?” I croaked.
“You sound like shit,” said Erik.
I cleared my throat and pulled the blanket up to my chin. “I haven’t used my voice a lot today.”
“You didn’t talk a lot in your e-mail either. It was like you were saying farewell.”
I suddenly appeared sombre. “Well…
“What do you mean WELL? You think I only stayed in touch because I wanted a hook-up?!”
This was the first time I’d ever heard Erik raise his voice, which really made me want to believe everything he was saying.
“Not exactly…” I started.
“This is New York, Romi, there are beautiful women everywhere---”
“That’s great! Go get ‘em tiger!” I rolled my eyes.
I could hear him laughing now. “I see you haven’t lost your edge. Now would you let me finish?”
I was smiling now. “Sure, I can’t wait for this.”
“My point is if I only wanted a hook-up, I could get it any night of the week. So don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
My smile grew wider. “Fine, whatever.”
“I made you that song in the meantime; do you want to hear it?”
Despite my diagnosed lack of energy, I practically jumped two feet out of bed, and sat up straight on my knees. “You finished your song?!”
“OUR song. Your lyrics worked out great. It’s like they unblocked my creativity...you’re a lifesaver.”
I smiled warmly, forgetting how hard it had been to actually write it. “It’s no big deal.”
He laughed. “Oh right, I bet any girl could’ve done this. Next time I’ll just ask some random chick in New York if she can help.”
I frowned. “NOT funny.”
“Relax, I’m kidding! Anyway I thought it might help you feel better to hear it. Would you like to use Skype so you can watch?”
I grabbed a strand of my greasy matted hair and was immediately horrified. “I don’t think my Internet’s working.”
“Ah okay. Now remember I will send you a recorded version later, where I add in all the instruments and harmonies. But this is just me and my guitar. So forgive me if I screw up any notes.”
“I’m sure it’ll sound great. I can’t wait!” I was literally holding back a squeal by now.
“Okay, listen closely.”
I heard him put down his phone, followed by some shuffling noises, where I imagined him picking up his guitar, and putting the strap over his wonderfully fit body. Before I could lick my lips I heard a strum to kick things off. A second later, he started singing and playing at a fairly quick tempo.
“Life was nice and easy,
Happiness was free;
I thought I had it figured out,
Then you crashed into me.”
Hearing him sing instead of talk was a revelation. He wasn’t some “American Idol” contestant belting it out, but instead it was a not-so-perfect but perfectly-passionate voice. With the slightest mumble that reminded me of Bob Dylan.
I loved it.
As he sang on, my smile grew as wide as the Joker’s. Only less creepy.
“A smile, a look, a laugh,
It’s nice but I’ll forget;
Then words then so much meaning,
It’s you I won’t forget.”
I nodded my head to the beat as he continued.
“Addicted to your dreams,
The sweetness in your eyes;
They tell me you’re the devil,
Doesn’t matter I won’t hide.
A smile, a look, a laugh,
It’s nice but I’ll forget;
Then words then so much meaning,
Don’t leave me cold just yet.”
My smile was still in place, but the joy of hearing him sing was being overshadowed by a feeling of sorrow. I hadn’t been prepared for that, so I tried to focus harder on the music instead of the lyrics.
“Nothing grows in darkness,
The sun won’t shine this way;
Stay here in this moment,
Before it fades away.”
My smile was gone and I wiped away a tear.
***
My bedroom was in darkness once again, as I lay in bed with my phone casting a glow on
my frowning face.
“Two weeks isn’t really all that long,” said Erik.
“Yep.”
“I’ll e-mail you all the time!” he insisted.
“No you won’t. And you shouldn’t. You’ll be at home spending the holidays with your family.” I paused. “And loved ones.”
He sighed. “I will definitely miss our chats, but like I said I’ll be back soon!”
I smiled. “Well hurry up. I want winter to be over anyway, ‘cause I’d much rather visit you in spring. How’s New York in springtime?”
There was a pause. “Last year was nice. I don’t know how this year will be.” Out of nowhere he was sounding really weird. I wanted to ask what was up but he cleared his throat and continued on. “I better get going, Romi. So much packing to do.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye for now.”
Just like that he was gone, and the rollercoaster of our contact took another downward turn…
Chapter Fifteen
A week before Christmas, with my antibiotics cycle long complete and my exhausting kidney infection now only a memory, I was finally back in the groove at work. I was also ready to indulge in some wine with my favourite gossip hounds Amy and Eleanor. It was just what I needed to distract myself from Erik being home for the holidays. Yes, he was in Denmark now, which meant that as I sat here, he was probably really busy getting his “reunion” on. Ugh.
I left my desk and met an eager Eleanor and Amy on the ground floor.
In less than thirty seconds we crossed the street and raced into the fancy steakhouse (proximity to the office was crucial on these cold winter nights). The dark décor and dim lighting was a perfect match for the classy Christmas wreaths and garlands, which were decorated with soft yellow light-strings and burgundy ribbons.
I sat down first and straightened my festive red cardigan, which went great with my nerdy faux pearls.
Eleanor---a self-proclaimed Grinch when it came to Christmas---was all dressed in black, which was...quite frankly, hot. Amy in contrast was wearing a combination of green, red and white (luckily her office pants were black to somewhat normalize the look). She was a true office elf.
“I can’t believe it’s been a month since we all hung out!” said Eleanor.
I nodded. “Imagine missing two weeks of work and then drowning in your boss’s shit pile.” I sighed. “I guess I had to pretend you guys didn’t exist so I could actually survive.”
Amy patted me on the shoulder. “Aww, we still love you. But you missed a ton of juicy gossip…like Eleanor’s final date with poker-face!” Amy was completely sober, yet already cackling like a maniac. I loved her. I was also surprised to hear that Eleanor’s poker-playing suitor was out of the picture. Well I wasn’t surprised that it was over (come on, a poker player?), but surprised that I hadn’t heard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.
“Well I felt bad bugging you about it when you were sick,” she said.
“Are you kidding? It would’ve been an awesome distraction. So how did it end? Are you okay?”
Amy cackled again. “Oh she’ll be fine.”
I was totally intrigued, and when our wine finally arrived I could be patient no more. “Spill it.”
Eleanor took a long sip, put down the glass, then rolled up her sleeves to her elbows. I could tell this was going to be good. “So, after I constantly told him I was busy…”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Two weeks.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Go on.”
“Well I finally scheduled a date with him.” I nodded as she went on. “So he invited me to his place for takeout and a movie, which I thought was pretty innocent.”
I considered it for a second. “What was the cuisine and what was the movie?”
“Thai and ‘The Smurfs.’”
I nodded. “Bad make-out breath and a G-rating? Yeah that seems pretty innocent.”
“We talked a lot during the movie, like making jokes and stuff…I was actually having a really good time!”
I gave her my most serious Barbara Walters face, pursed lips and all. “So Eleanor, what went wrong?”
“Well…I was in the middle of laughing at one of his jokes...and he basically mauled me!”
Amy laughed. “He’s a famous poker player you know…gotta put out!”
Eleanor punched Amy in the shoulder. She barely flinched.
“No hold on though,” I said. “She kinda has a point. So what happened next?”
“Well I pushed him off of me. I mean he didn’t even start with some casual kissing. Like he was ON me, and he has such a big upper body! Don’t you remember?”
“DO I?” I shook my head. “His upper body is shaped like an upside-down triangle. Like a slice of pizza.”
“Pizza body!” Amy cried.
“Yes, a pizza body. Thank you. So did he take off his shirt, and if so, did he have greasy pepperoni nipples?”
Amy and I were laughing uncontrollably now, but Eleanor looked extremely annoyed.
“Sorry,” I quickly said. “So then what?”
“Well I told him it wasn’t going to happen for him, at least not then, so we watched the rest of the movie in silence.” She shook her head. “I mean I barely know him, right?! The ‘Eleanor code’ does not crack so easily!”
“But what about the third date rule?” said Amy.
“No, no,” I said. “Meeting a guy at a club is not a first date. This was only their second. Besides, those rules are dumb. Rules like that help loser guys get laid, and they pressure girls like us into taking something emotional and making it trivial, when let’s face it, is anything ever trivial to us?”
Amy gave me a blank stare.
“Well you might be the exception,” I said.
We all laughed.
“So then he just drove you home?” I asked.
“That’s the worst part. On the way to his car he was being such a pouty little boy. Then once we were on the road he kept saying how I live so far away, and that maybe he could drop me off at some intersection. Like it’s a ten-minute drive and it’s one a.m. bitch!”
A nearby table of respectable-looking older women frowned at us. Luckily they weren’t our co-workers.
“Sorry you went through all that,” I said. “It’s disturbing but also hilarious.”
She nodded. “It kind of is. Then when I asked him why he was so upset, he turned to me and said ‘because I didn’t get laid.’”
I almost choked on my wine. “Wow, don’t hold back, pizza-body.”
“Like what a jerk,” said Eleanor. “Anyway he messaged me the next day but I deleted him off my BlackBerry. DONE!”
“Well I think this validates the professional poker player stereotype,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Eleanor seemed curious all of a sudden.
“Just think about his life for a second. He probably plays in these glitzy poker tournaments in say…Monaco or something. When you’re in a place like that and you’re winning tournaments, I bet a row of groupie vaginas just opens up, like flowers pointing at the sun.” I tried to mime an opening vagina with my hands. It looked awkward. “Oh and in case you didn’t catch it, he’s the sun in this analogy.”
Amy stared at me hard. “You’re such a weirdo.”
I smiled. “And you’re our leader.”
We finished off our wine and ordered another round, which was just the distraction I needed from the thought of what or “who” Erik was doing…
***
Thick snowflakes gently fell on our snow-covered yard, as I watched from the warmth of the kitchen. I cradled a cup of hot chocolate and slowly sipped, while Frank Sinatra’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” provided a nostalgic soundtrack. That song was the most beautiful and perhaps the most depressing Christmas tune I knew (aside from the one about starving children who don’t even know it’s Christmas). It made me think about all those people wishing to spend Christmas w
ith their loved ones, but instead having them thousands of miles away where they were banging some other chick.
Wait, maybe that’s not what “Old Blue Eyes” was trying to say.
I heard a scratching sound coming from the family room, followed by the familiar sound of Christmas ornaments dropping to the floor.
“Tommy!” I set down my cup and stomped right over to my badass cat, who hopped onto one of the chocolate-brown couches like he owned the place.
I narrowed my eyes. “If you don’t behave, you’re not getting ANY treats in your stocking!” I pointed to the smallest red stocking hanging from the mantle, the one with the name “Tommy” written out in glitter paint. I couldn’t even remember when we’d made the decision to humanize our cat with a stocking. It was just one of those normal pet owner realities, like making him wear a party hat on his birthday.
Tommy watched intently as I crawled around the floor looking for ornaments. Even though I couldn’t see his yellow-green eyes, he was enjoying it, that much I knew. Once I had them all, these different looking mismatched balls, I hung each one of them back on our seven-foot artificial tree. This was one of those fancier pre-lit trees, but instead of getting the kind with the clear white lights, we’d chosen the one with a gumball-coloured mash-up of bulbs. Our ornaments weren’t cohesive either, but rather the sum of all the ones that hadn’t broken over the years, plus whichever new ones seemed cute. Like this stuffed gingerbread man in a chef’s hat. Aww! Martha Stewart definitely wouldn’t approve, but as if I was about to take decorating advice from a hardened criminal?
