“Oh, sorry, um, this is my friend Tucker Jansen,” Ben stammers. “Tucker, this is Claudia Parr,” he says, pausing for one beat before using my maiden name.
I memorize her name as she flashes me a polite, friendly smile. Unfortunately, it reveals absolutely nothing. I still don’t know if she knows who I am. I do notice, however, that she has very few lines around her eyes. She is definitely in her twenties. I’d put her no older than twenty-six. The name Tucker seems to corroborate my guess. Nobody born in the sixties and seventies has a name like Tucker. The surname craze didn’t start until later. She is an eighties child. She was probably five when St. Elmo’s Fire came out. Three when Flashdance hit theaters. It is entirely possible that she hasn’t even seen those movies.
I swallow, descend the stairs, and shake her hand. “Hi, Tucker. It’s nice to meet you.” Luckily I am left-handed so my right hand is not the sticky one.
Tucker’s grip is firm, but her skin is soft. Alarmingly soft. “Nice to meet you, too,” she says.
We are all stuck at this point. What else can we say? If Tucker knows who I am, she can’t say anything. And if she doesn’t know who I am, she can’t say anything. Ben really can’t offer up, “This is my ex-wife.” Or, “This is my new girlfriend.” Or, “You two actually have a lot in common. You’ve both had stress fractures! Only Claudia got hers from tripping on an escalator rather than training too hard. And she only ever aspired to finish a marathon.”
And I certainly can’t say, “So, Ben, do you think that I’m allowing fear to govern my life?”
So we all just stand there for a second, smiling unnaturally, until I say, “Well, I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d say hello.”
“I’m glad you did,” Ben says.
“Yeah. But I have to get going now,” I say, glancing at my watch. I am still holding the half-eaten cone, which is beginning to drip from the tiny opening in the bottom. Note to self: the next time you stalk your ex-husband, go with a waffle cone .
Tucker says, “Well, I better get going, too”
This statement is a strong indication that she knows exactly who I am. She feels rude and awkward standing there with my ex-husband while I am forced to slink away. It is arguably a compassionate move on her part, but it makes me feel even more pathetic. Then again, maybe she really does have to get home. Maybe she has to shower and get ready for the dressed-up, nighttime portion of their date. Or maybe they are already showering together. She appears to be completely unself-conscious, the sort of girl who might hop in the shower with a new boyfriend, under bright lights.
I feel tempted to let Tucker go so I can stay and talk to Ben. But I feel too humiliated and decide it’s better to walk away first. Show both of them that I am fine with whatever they have going on. I give Ben a small, formal smile and say good-bye. Then I shuffle away quickly. I hear Ben and Tucker exchange a few words and then she is behind me, saying my name. She so knows the deal.
She asks if I’m going to the subway. I detect a Chicago accent and think, Midwestern, wholesome .
I say yes, I am.
“Me, too,” she says.
Great . I am now stuck walking several blocks to the subway with her, maybe longer if we’re going the same direction. Now I really think I might puke. I can actually feel the martinis and rainbow sprinkles in my throat as I ask, “So how do you know Ben?”
“We met at a party.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” I say, and then can’t resist asking, “When?”
“Memorial Day.”
“That’s nice,” I say again, feeling somewhat relieved that we didn’t overlap.
“Ben and I are just friends,” she offers clumsily.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
After a long silence, I say, “Us, too. Although we used to be married.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Well,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“Yeah,” she says with her own anxious chuckle.
And that’s about when I think to myself that I’d rather be a contestant on Fear Factor than continue a conversation with Ben’s new “friend.” So I manufacture an Upper West Side errand.
“I have to run in here and check out some things,” I say, pointing up to a random store we are walking past.
“Oh,” she says. “Do you have a dog or a cat?”
Leave it to me to pick a pet store when I don’t have a pet.
“Neither I, um, just need to get a few gifts I have some friends with dogs,” I mumble. “So it was nice to meet you, Tucker.”
“It was really nice to meet you, too, Claudia. Hope to see you again.”
Not if I see you first and actually have a chance to escape.
“So. Bye,” I say.
“Buh-bye , “she says.
Buh-bye?
I duck into the store and pretend to be enthralled with a tank full of goldfish, comforting myself with the knowledge that Ben hates when girls say buh-bye . It will never last between them. She is young, athletic, and sweet. And I’m sure she’s dying to have children. She even looks fertile. But she says buh-bye . At least I have that much to hold on to as I face another Saturday night alone.
* * *
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