“No. I actually like the subway.”
“Bullshit. I’ve watched the way you gingerly hold on to the pole,” he says, imitating my grip. “And make sure your legs don’t touch the person next to you. And you use that antibacterial gel afterward.”
I shake my head. “So I have a mild case of OCD What’s your point, anyway?”
“My point is your standards are too high.”
“In movies? Public transportation?”
“In general.”
I have the distinct feeling we are about to cover my personal life. Michael’s been telling me for weeks that I need to get back on my horse. Check out Match.com. Pick up a random, pretty stranger at a bar. I told him that I wasn’t interested in random guys, pretty or otherwise.
“I know Ben was the man and all” Michael says. The way he says it makes me think that he doesn’t think Ben was the man at all. “But”
I interrupt him and say, “I knew this was about my love life. Jeez, Michael, I’ve only been divorced for a few days.”
He looks over his shoulder as if we’re being followed and says, “I know. But you’ve been separated for longer And in my experience, after a bad breakup and I think a divorce qualifies—it helps to just go ahead and get the first hookup over with. Take the plunge.”
“Are you volunteering?”
He looks at me and grins. “Are you taking volunteers?”
“No, I say. I’m not.”
“I didn’t think so But if you change your mind, I’d be up for it.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Michael? Have you been secretly in love with me all these many years?” I joke back, giving him a sideways once-over. He is wearing a canary-yellow T-shirt, Adidas flip-flops, and khaki cargo shorts that show off his long, sinewy calves. There’s something about the confident way he walks, slightly bow-legged, that hints at high marks in bed.
He smirks. “Nah. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to get all Harry Met Sally on you or anything I just think you should know that I’m always willing to help out a friend.”
“Help me out?” I say. “Aren’t you in a bit of a drought yourself?”
“Six weeks does not a drought make,” he says. Then he clears his throat and says, “Look. I’m just saying that I think you’re very attractive. A solid eight. So if you need a volunteer or anything, I’m here for you.”
“Gee,” I say. “Who needs the view from the Brooklyn Bridge with that kind of pep talk?”
Michael smiles as he leads me over to the side of the bridge. “This is a good spot,” he says.
I follow him and look across the sparkling water toward Manhattan. The skyline is stunning, even without the World Trade Center. Around us, people are snapping photos and pointing out landmarks. I look down the bridge toward Brooklyn and see a teenaged girl flash a peace sign and then blow a kiss at a boy approaching her. I imagine their earlier conversation: Meet me on the Brooklyn Bridge, baby . I close my eyes, listen to a helicopter overhead, and feel a breeze against my face.
After a long moment, I reach into my pocket for my wedding ring, which I brought with me at the last minute. I give it one last look, running my hand along the inside engraving FOREVER, BEN. Then I roll my shoulder back and forth to loosen my muscles before chucking it overhand into the East River. I am proud of my nongirly, hard throw, a benefit of having no brothers and a father who adores baseball; he poured all his effort into me. I try to keep my eye on it to see the precise spot it drops, but lose sight of it about halfway down, the platinum band getting lost in the background of the pewter-colored river.
“Was that what I think it was?” Michael says. He looks impressed.
“Yup,” I say, squinting down at the water.
His black eyebrows arch high over his Oakleys. “Rather Titanic -esque, huh?”
I laugh. “See that? Rose and I have a lot in common.”
“Seriously. That was a strong move,” Michael says.
“Thanks.”
“Almost makes me want to kiss you,” he says. “The cherry on top of your little ceremony, ya know?”
I consider his proposition for a moment and the fact that it might add a little texture to our friendship. Whenever I get that inevitable question, the one always posed to male-female friends: “Have you two ever kissed or anything?” I can say, “Indeed we have . Once upon a time, right after I hurled my wedding ring off the Brooklyn Bridge.” It would make a good story in my romantic repertoire, one that Jess would surely enjoy—particularly because she thinks Michael is hot. Besides, maybe a simple kiss, like my symbolic ring toss, could serve as a catalyst of sorts.