“What else am I supposed to do?” I moan. “Tinder is the only way anyone meets up these days, and these guys all look normal enough in their profile. Well, most of them, anyway,” I say, backtracking quickly before she can call me out.
“Besides, I wasted my hot twenties on Todd, living in a crappy studio apartment, working that stupid sales job to make his dreams come true, and then he leaves me for his assistant! Now I’m THIRTY and stuck in this Tinder wasteland. I mean, the last three guys I hooked up with all stopped in the middle of sex to come on my tits! Not one, not two, but all three!” I despair. “Is romance totally dead, Jess? And more importantly, does my chest have a target painted on it or something?”
Jess bursts out laughing, still holding a goop-covered spoon in one hand. I can see Jackson running around behind her in their living room naked like some sort of crazed animal in need of a tranquilizer gun. “Lizzie! Not in front of the kids, okay?” she warns me, grinning. “And it’s not like thirty is even old! I’m thirty-five, you know!”
“Yeah, but you’re thirty-five with a husband and two kids living in a gorgeous house in Austin, Texas! I’m thirty with nothing waiting at home for me in the Naked City but this half-bottle of Two Buck Chuck.” I gulp my wine like it’s oxygen, aware that I’m rapidly crossing the line between tipsy and flat out drunk.
“I’m literally sobbing for you inside,” she drawls. “I mean, it’s Tinder! What were you expecting? That this guy was going to sweep you off your feet and you’d move into his penthouse in Tribeca and live happily ever after?”
I sigh, taking another sip of wine. Not expected. Hoped was more like it. I mean, is it so bad that I still believe there’s a guy out there who might wine and dine me, and also fuck me like he’s straight out of Magic Mike XXL? Who will send me flowers unexpectedly, leave little love notes in my purse, and bring home a bottle of prosecco just because?
The “told ya so” look on my sister’s face answers the question for me with a resounding no. Clearly I’m not going to get much (read: any) sympathy from my own flesh and blood, so the only thing to do is clear—change the subject.
“So what’s that on your cheek?” I ask mischievously, one eyebrow raised—a move that took me months to perfect in front of endless Joan Crawford movies. “Did Richard come home early and give you a facial?”
Richard’s classically handsome with these waspy, blond-haired, all-American good looks, and is the sweetest guy ever. He’s just . . . how can I put this? Not all that interesting? In fact, talking to him basically produces instant narcolepsy. I have no idea how Jess stays awake long enough to fuck him. She must recite the alphabet backwards or something.
“Oh my god,” she says, literally recoiling in horror. “NO! That is so gross! We would . . . I would . . . never!” she stammers, her face the color of a summer tomato.
“Never is a mighty long time, Sis,” I say with a wicked smile. “You should try it. What’s the worst that could happen—you might actually have a good time?”
“You’re completely depraved,” she shoots back, practically sputtering now. “Richard and I have a normal sex life,” she insists. “Normal. We would never do . . . any of that!”
See, what did I tell you? She’s definitely reciting the alphabet when he fucks her. Or counting ceiling tiles. Besides, I love making my sister squirm. It’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel: a direct hit every time.
“Relax,” I laugh. “You’re probably getting more action than me, even if it is on a schedule. Seven p.m. bath-time, seven-thirty p.m. bedtime stories,” I tease. “Eight to eight-fifteen, conjugal intimacy.”
“I hate you.” Jess scowls, but she’s laughing. “And I’ll have you know, it’s more like eight to eight-thirty.”
“Go Richard!” I cheer. “Who’d have thought the man had it in him?”
After we hang up, I’m still not tired, even though I have to be up early, so I grab the remote and switch on the TV. When Jess and I were kids, before our parents finally split, I was dumped in front of the television practically every day after school while they had it out in the kitchen. As a result, TCM kind of became my best friend, and I still find it comforting to disappear into the fantasy land on screen: a world where the women are strong and sassy and well-dressed, and the men really know how to treat a lady.
A little champagne with dinner? Yes, please.
For once, I’m in luck—An Affair to Remember is on, lighting up the screen in glorious Technicolor. As I watch Cary Grant tenderly push back Deborah Kerr’s flame-colored hair from her celestial face, I settle back into the cushions, pulling my feet underneath me. Now this is more like it. Waiting at the top of the Empire State Building for hours in the freezing cold for the woman you love, AND pining for her for years after she didn’t show up? That was romance.
Coming on a lady’s chest halfway through sex? Please.
I roll my eyes at the thought, draining my glass of wine and setting it down on the floor before curling up with my grandmother’s purple knitted afghan.
Cary Grant would never pull that shit.
Lizzie
When I walk into the museum the next morning, the sound of my boots clattering against the marble floors tells me I’m definitely hungover. Ouch. But even through my pounding headache, I still get the same kick as always, passing through the main hall with its gilded ceiling and ornate details. The Met is one of the greatest museums in the world, home to amazing works of art and culture, right on the edge of Central Park. I would come here all the time when I first moved to the city, just wandering the halls and taking in a new exhibition every other weekend. Todd always scoffed at it, saying I was obsessed with the past, but he never understood it wasn’t about the artifacts, but the stories they told. A thousand different cultures over hundreds of years, all asking the same questions about life and love and our place in the world. The day I landed my assistant curator position, it felt like my life was finally back on track—I was doing something just for me, after spending so long following his plan.
But today, I barely give the grand staircase a second glance. Nope, I’m in emergency mode: heading straight for the basement in search of my next fix.
O coffee machine, where art thou?
A whistle pierces straight through my skull. “Someone had fun last night.”
I groan. Our head of corporate PR, Bernard, is at the espresso machine, whipping up something perfect and espresso-adjacent. As usual, he’s impeccably tailored in Italian cashmere and slacks. I hate him for being sober right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t grovel to get what I need. “How much do you love me?” I say with a begging face.
He takes pity on me. “Enough to stop you making a fool of yourself. Here.”
“Angel.” I grab the tiny cup and gulp it down in one, then hold it out beseechingly.
He sighs. “Just one more, then I’m cutting you off. You’ve got a problem.”