I met Chris years before at a party on the Lower East Side. He
was still living in New York then. Dave introduced us and we bonded immediately
because we both worked for the same chef but in different restaurants. After
that, we often ran into each other because he and Dave knew a lot of the same
people, DJs, party promoters, musicians. I worked part-time then and it gave me
a lot of freedom to go out so I spent an inordinate amount of time at concerts,
in bars and going to parties, surrounded by people who, it seemed, never had to
wake up early for work. It's a lifestyle that, from time to time, I still miss.
But seeing the same people at the same parties, drinking shitty gin mixed with
soda night after night and waking up, vaguely hungover, at noon every day, becomes
tiresome. And when the lights come on at the bar at 4 a.m. and you see your
friends - maybe acquaintances is a better word - eyes wide, looking sweaty,
worn and messy, you begin to long for the daytime.
I never quite fit into that world and so I sought out people
I could relate to. There weren't many but Chris was one of them. We would find
each other in the crowd and, sitting alone on a couch or perched on barstools,
we would talk. When he became the chef at a wine bar in the East Village, he
got me a job at the restaurant next door. Many nights, after I got off work, I
would go to that wine bar and he would feed me bitter chocolate and sweet wine.
I would watch him in the tiny open kitchen, always impressed by how quickly and
deftly he cooked.
Once, Chris says, he came up to me at a party and told me
that he thought I was the most beautiful girl in the room. I became awkward
and, in his words, "ran away." I don't remember it. On another night, at yet another party, I propositioned his girlfriend. Thankfully, I don't
remember that either.
I do remember the last time I saw Chris in New York before
he left for his hometown, Charleston. We met downtown. He had his dog with him.
We went to a bar where Chris knew the bartender and we drank together as his
dog sat at our feet. Later, we walked slowly around the neighborhood and he
told me about his breakup as he tried to keep his dog from lunging at passersby.
We hugged goodbye in the middle of a sidewalk and I felt something more than
sadness over the fact that Chris was leaving.
We stayed in touch, texting, talking on the phone. Chris got
his life together, stopped partying, simplified his existence and got a good
job. And I fell apart as my relationship slowly failed. When Dave finally left
me, Chris knew, intuitively, that I needed to leave New York for a time, that
getting fucked up and acting out was not the answer. After some animated
discussions about all of the things we would do together in Charleston - in the
sun, during the day - I excitedly booked a plane ticket. Then, I immediately
became nervous and self-conscious. I called Chris, frazzled, and he reassured
me that he wanted me to come.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I allowed myself,
sometimes, to think, cautiously, that, maybe, just maybe, something might
happen. When my friends asked about my expectations, I would often say coyly,
"Maybe," before saying more seriously, "No, I don't think he's
interested." Still, I agonized over what I would wear, the things I would
say, how I should act. I bought a half-assed, overly sexy Halloween costume
that I never actually wore.
When my plane landed in Charleston, I beelined for an airport
bathroom to redo my makeup, applying red lipstick and dark eyeliner. I wore a
tight, lacy, black outfit. My hair was dyed turquoise. I put on oversized sunglasses
to cover the dark circles under my eyes, which were more pronounced than usual
because I hadn't slept the night before. I left the bathroom and saw Southern
women in pastel dresses all around. Next to them, I looked like I was doing a
walk of shame through an airport. I felt awkward, uncomfortable and
conspicuous. I chalked it up to the fact that I was a New Yorker in a Southern
city. My emotions were real but my reasoning was flawed.
I walked outside into the mid-morning sun. I looked across
the airport parking lot at the palmetto trees and, beyond them, at the blue
Southern sky. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Chris.
And I realized that I was tired of living in the dark.
