I know he felt my body reacting to his kiss. How can a chaste kiss make me go over the edge? I try to tell myself it’s just because he took me by surprise and I need a few seconds to regain control. He releases me, but never takes his eyes off me.
I finally look back at him. He looks so serious and beautiful, his eyes and face illuminated by the dim streetlights. He exhales and sounds a little exasperated when he says, “You and your stupid rules, Prudence.”
I try to come back with something smart, but I can’t think of anything other than, “You will thank me one day.”
“We’ll see about that. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Safe travels!” I turn around and wave as I enter my building.
That kiss on my cheek and the kisses in the kitchen a few days ago are all I can think about before I go to sleep that night. I touch my cheek, still reeling from that experience. The fact that something so insignificant and little can make me this crazy is the perfect example why I shouldn’t even entertain the thought of the two of us together.
In reality, though, Ben has quickly inserted himself in my life in the span of a week, and I don’t want to think of not having him around anymore. I try to convince myself that this might be one of those crash and burn friendships, where you spend a crazy amount of hours together in a very short number of weeks. You think you are the best friends and can’t live without talking to each other every single day, but then a crucial event happens and you just start drifting away, and after a while it’s hard to believe that you were ever friends at all.
Chapter 8
I THOUGHT with him gone I would be extremely productive; in reality, it’s been four days and I haven’t written one sentence. Correction, I have written many sentences, none of which I like. I keep going back and rereading a paragraph several times before I axe most of it. I really, really like the story and the characters I’m working on, but suddenly I find myself at an impasse and can’t decide how to move forward. I go to the gym and spend more time there, hoping to clear my head and get some ideas. It pleases Andrew immensely, but it does nothing for my mild case of writer’s block.
I call a couple of girlfriends and we go out to lunch one day, but I keep zoning out. I’m desperately searching for a way to make the plot plausible, but it won’t come to me. To hell with it. I’m just about ready to throw in the towel when I get a text from my favorite blond-haired guy.
Ben: The West Coast is beautiful and the waves are crazy. I’m not coming back. :-)
Me: Good, stay there. I will have my attorney rescind the contract and take care of everything else.
Ben: Not happening. I’m still going to honor our deal.
Me: I don’t even know if there is going to be a book at all.
Ben: ???
Me: I haven’t been able to make any progress. I feel like I’m going down the writer’s block tunnel.
Ben: Got it.
Me: That’s all you have to say?
Ben: What do you want me to say?
Me: I thought you’d get mad and I would get a lecture. I thought you’d chastise me.
Ben: Only if you are into that kind of stuff. ;)
Me: I’m serious.
Ben: Me too.
I wait for a while, watching the three dots appearing and disappearing on the screen.
Ben: I liked that story, but if you are stuck and don’t know how to go on, nothing is set in stone. It’s early enough in the process where you could start working on something else. Set it aside. Maybe it will eventually come to you. Start fresh. You worry too much.
Me: And you are so easygoing. How do you do it?
Ben: It’s a philosophy I swore to live by. What did you expect? You forgot I’m a surfer dude.
Me: *Facepalm* So, have you been surfing a lot?
Ben: Almost every day.
Me: I thought you had gone out there for work or whatever it is that you do. :-)
Ben: What is it I do? I simply sweep writers off their feet and conquer them with my great personality until they just give up and sign with me.
Me: Yeah, you’re good at that. :-)
Ben: ;-)
Ben: But in response to your accusation, I did fit in the surfing around my work schedule.
Me: Just messing with you.
Ben: You should mess with me more. ;-)
Me: You are really quite audacious in text form.
Ben: The real life version of me could surprise you even more with his audacity.
He already surprises me. He infiltrated by brain and he’s messing with my head.
Me: Ha-ha, you already do! I’m pretty sure the real life version of you made me blush a few times.
Ben: You looked beautiful Friday night. Even more so after my goodnight kiss.
I’m grinning at the screen. It’s fun, but why do we keep going down this road? I thought we would let it go and be grownups, but all we do is throw innuendos at each other constantly. I have never been this flirty with anyone else, ever.
Me: Why do we keep doing this?
Ben: This what?
Me: All this flirting. I thought we had agreed we shouldn’t be doing this and just have a work relationship.
Ben: I swear I’m trying to respect your will. I wouldn’t have stopped Monday night in your kitchen if you hadn’t told me to.
Me: I don’t want things to get complicated.
Ben: Me either, but what am I supposed to do? I like hanging out with you.
Me: Me too.
Ben: And yes, you don’t want anything more to happen between us, but you keep flirting with me too.
I have been, he is right.
Me: Guilty as charged. I can’t help it. I have word vomit when I’m around you. Half the time I realize what I say just a little too late.
Ben: See? Maybe we shouldn’t stop ourselves . . .
Me: Ben . . .
Ben: I think that no matter how much you try to avoid it, it’s going to happen . . .
Me: What’s going to happen?
Ben: Us. We are going to happen.
Me: I’m a little confused. Last time we touched the subject I thought I was being propositioned into a no-strings-attached type of deal. What are you saying now?
Ben: I wouldn’t waste my time on vacation texting a girl just so that we can be friends with benefits.
My head is spinning. WHAT is he saying?
Me: This conversation requires a face to face interaction.
Ben: Face to face interaction in my vocabulary is called “kissing.”
Me: You must have the slutty edition of the thesaurus.
Ben: Ha-ha! Good one!
Me: But seriously, what are you saying? Do you want to go steady? ;-)
Ben: What I’m trying to say is that I really miss you, Prudence.
He misses me. Quick, I need a witty comeback! But I need to tell him I miss him too!
Me: Me too. You would think I would enjoy the peace without you snoring on my couch, but I don’t.
Ben: There you go again!
Me: Just kidding!
Ben: I was being serious, btw.
Me: I miss you too. For reals.
I feel energized and confident after our talk. Yet, as I try to look through my notes for possible book ideas, nothing inspires me. I browse the Internet and even try to work on the project I got stuck on, which I had temporarily titled Elise. Nothing comes to me, and I feel so frustrated. I feel claustrophobic in my tiny apartment, so I decide to go for a walk.
I don’t leave Brooklyn that often. I go to Manhattan just when I need to. But I’m really getting nothing done, and I have gone to the gym more than I ever do. Maybe I’ll go shopping. Usually this would be the time when I would call Cora and see if she could get away and spend the afternoon together, going mostly window shopping on Madison Avenue and then ending up at some H&M. We tried the Sample Sales a couple of times, but we were no match for those bitches. I decide to get off at Columbus Circle.
When I’m in a rut and can’
t write a sentence, I love to go people watching. I could do it for hours. It’s nice because most of the time I have nowhere to be, and sometimes this is just what could do the trick when I get stuck. I observe people, their demeanor, what they do, what they carry, and I try to listen in on their conversations if I can do it without creeping them out. New York is the perfect place. I can just be one of the normal looking people who has a staring habit and is a closeted creep.
I find a bench, sit down, get my notebook out, and start looking around. I see a few subjects, a couple of homeless people, runners, elders, tourists. Then I see this girl in her twenties carrying a cardboard tray of Starbucks drinks, balancing her heavy fashion bag on the elbow of her other arm and talking on the phone. She is talking animatedly to someone, complaining about work. She probably has a Devil Wears Prada type boss; everyone has had one of those.
We don’t look alike, but she reminds me of me at that age. I don’t miss having to deal with the crap of your early twenties. At all. And yet again, I long for that time in your life when anything is still possible. I’m happy with the choices I have made in my life, but from time to time, I wonder what would have happened if I had chosen journalism instead. Would I be happier career-wise? Or would I be one of those who have a hard time and always get stuck with the lousy stories? I’m writing in my notebook about the coffee girl. Early twenties, terrible job.
I hear some music, and I get distracted. It’s not anywhere around my peripheral vision, but I keep listening. It’s just a man singing with a guitar, I think. The sound is so . . . different. It’s a bluesy rock rhythm. I need to find out where it is coming from, so I get up and try to figure out which way I should go. I walk a little down the main path before I come to a fork and I see a little clearing. I can see him. I get closer and notice that while he is only playing the guitar, he is using a recorded base of other instruments that add to the sound. He sings beautifully.
There are no more than five people around him to watch, but most of the passersby don’t pay any attention. He finishes a song and starts singing another after saying “Thank you” to the people listening. Rhythmically it’s quite different from the previous, but equally beautiful. Some of the people drop some money in his guitar case and leave. Some more people, coming up behind me, stop and listen. There are no benches here, so we are all standing in a semi-circle around him. His hair is brown and long to his ears. It’s a little messy, in a cute kind of way. He has brown eyes and a clean-cut face. He is cute. He doesn’t strike me as the rock star type, or the artsy musician, but he’s got some really good tunes. Even his clothes are decidedly normal. I keep listening to his music for a while and from time to time I make eye contact with him. I, along with the other people around me, applaud enthusiastically.
He looks like he could be my age. How long has he been a street performer? How many years has he dedicated to playing guitar? Does he have a “real job” and this is his hobby? I have seen many, many artists perform in Central Park, but I never thought about how many of them will keep trying and trying, but never make it. How many of them have given up through the years? How many have succeeded? When you have a dream so big, and you keep trying and trying but never break through, what is the deciding factor that makes you stop? Are your twenties for your dreams, and your thirties for reality? I really don’t know why I am even thinking of all this.
I want to talk to him. Congratulate him, maybe ask him some questions. He finishes another song and I clap along with the others.
“Thank you very much. I’m going to take a little break, and just so you know, I have some CDs for sale if you are interested.”
All the bystanders leave, except one guy, who starts talking to the musician. I stand to the side and check if I have any cash in my purse to buy a CD. I have no idea if he has one of those iPhone payment things. This is New York, but still. Miraculously, I do have some cash, so I pull it out of my wallet, and wait to get his attention to give him the money. He is still talking to the man while he tells me how much and hands me the change. I check out the back of the CD case and read the title tracks. It’s not a demo, or an EP—it’s a full-size album.
The cover is a painting of the sea. He probably did that too. He sees me still standing there and tries to cut the conversation with the other guy.
“I’m sorry, is everything okay? Did I give you the wrong change?” he asks.
“No, no. I just wanted to say that I really liked your music. My name is Prudence,” I tell him, stretching out my hand.
“Matt. Nice to meet you.”
The other guy finally takes a hint and leaves, and I can talk to Matt freely.
“You are really, really good. How long have you been playing?” I ask a little nervously.
“I have been playing guitar since I was fourteen, but I started playing piano when I was ten. Are you a musician?” he asks, and I smile apologetically.
“Oh, no. I’m a writer.”
“Really?” He asks, seemingly interested.
“Yes. Actually, if you have time, I would like to ask you a couple of questions.”
He is intrigued, I think, but he also still looks at me suspiciously, as if he can’t tell if I’m kidding him or not.
“Hmm okay, sure. Shoot.”
“How long have you been doing this? You know, playing music in Central Park?”
Chapter 9
I GET OUT of the park and get on 59th Street, heading in the direction of 5th Avenue. As I walk, I replay the entire conversation in my head. Every step I take, I feel the cloud of thoughts and ideas growing bigger and bigger in my head. It’s like solving a crossword puzzle you had been stuck on forever, but suddenly you have all the answers. I stop dead in my tracks. I recognize the symptoms; I have to go back home. Right now. I have to write it. Everything. I have to write everything I’m thinking about. I have a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’m nervous, excited, and nauseous. I hurry my step and get to the subway. I use my ticket and hurry down the stairs, only to see the train leaving. I find a spot to lean against and start scribbling.
When the next train finally arrives, it is too crowded and I can’t sit down to write in my notebook. I’m able to find a spot where I can hold onto something and use my phone. I pull up a document app and start writing the synopsis. This will have to do for now. But my mind is pulsing with ideas, and I know I will only calm down when I finally get home. I’m such a nerd, almost trembling with excitement by the time I make it back to Brooklyn, my hands shaking. When I finally get off the train, I spring into a run. A run! I never run. I would only ever run if my life depended on it. I make it back to the building, and I’m already out of breath, although it’s less than a mile away from the station.
I wave at the doorman and bump into Eunice, the old lady from 4B, whom I always talk to. She is opening her mouth to speak to me and tell me about her day but I run past her, yelling frantically, “I’m sorry, Eunice! I can't stop, I have to go use the ladies room!”
She looks appalled, and yells after me, waving her cane in the air, “TMI Prudence, T-M-I!”
Who knew that Eunice was fluent in modern era acronyms? But I don't have time to dwell on that. I run up the stairs and get to my floor in a frenzy. I open the door and turn on the laptop, stat. Paper, I need paper. I start scribbling while the PC powers up, mainly just ideas about the storyline. Oh good, this fucker is finally up.
New Document. Chapter 1. And so it begins. I remember Matt's CD and I put it in. I need a soundtrack. I’m immersed in what I’m writing, but I’m still listening. I recognize some of the songs he was playing in the park. But the other songs, oh my God. The whole album is beautiful, and if I was intrigued before, now I’m fucking in love with this music.
Ben would probably love this. Ben, who has infiltrated my mind, there he is, once again. Focus, focus. Write. I keep writing, but the thought of him is still there, occupying a corner of my mind.
I keep writing for hours, getting up only for t
he bathroom and to refill my bottle of water. The talk with Matt is what really sparked all this. Learning all the hardships he has gone through for the love of music. He worked all kinds of jobs to self-produce the album. It was even positively reviewed by some minor magazines, but in the end it didn't really have the impact he was hoping. He toured for years in places around New York and New Jersey with his friends. They never got signed. Eventually everyone gave up on the band, and each one of them went their separate ways.
He still plays weddings, parties, and so on. He has written new songs, but he hasn't recorded any, because he cannot financially afford to go through the whole process again. He still loves playing, despite things not having turned out the way he hoped. He told me he can still sell the album since he wrote all the songs. Hold on, he told me he has the album up on iTunes, and that helps. I can send it to Ben without having to wait for him to come back. I write him a quick message.
Me: I have a new story! Oh, and also, check your email. You got music. You are required to listen to it asap!
He doesn't reply right away, however. Who knows what he is up to? I wonder how many “business” related things he really has to do. Don't go there, I tell myself, but a small fit of jealousy hits me. What if he is trying to woo some other girl with his out-of-this-world looks and his witty charm? I set those silly thoughts aside. He is not mine, and I have done nothing but try to push him away. To protect myself, I think as a silent reminder.
Has it really been not even two weeks? Because it feels like we have been playing this charade for way longer.
It's late now, but somehow I go back to my writing, and I write for a few more hours. I only stop for a little while when they deliver my Chinese food. I avoid turning on the TV, because I know that will suck me into a black hole. By the time I look up at the clock again, it's ten. I feel like I’m possessed. This has happened to me before, so I’m not too concerned about it. I know the sign and I know that when I hit the creativity lightning strike, I better go with it. I’m writing frenetically and from time to time I stop and write some other idea on my notebook.
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