“Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t get in trouble. It happens all the time with luggage.”
I shook my head, unable to speak what I was feeling. Barely audibly, I muttered, “That’s not it.” She looked in my eyes and she knew. She knew that I knew what she had known all along. I could tell she felt bad about it, about her part in changing my perception of our world. But really, she was not to blame. She had been filling my head with faithlessness and skepticism for as long as I can remember; it had never touched me. I knew that both Shireen and I would grow old in the tradition of our mother and grandmother. But suddenly it didn’t feel like it would be enough for me. As I stood in front of the mirror in the beautiful little black dress, I knew that I was looking at a woman whom I would never see again. I wished I had never seen her in the first place, but the truth is she had always been there. I was being dishonest to myself by pretending that she hadn’t.
Shireen’s eyes teared up as well. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
I quickly took off the shoes and the little black dress and put my burqa back on. I helped her pack up the bag. The phone rang, and somehow we knew it was the airline. We heard my mother coming up the stairs. Shireen was still wearing the Chanel suit. I quickly took her burqa off the bed and pulled it on over her head, over the suit. She laughed through watery tears. We zipped up the suitcase just as my mother came to the door to ask us about it.
“Have you unpacked your suitcase, girls? The airline is looking for a lost bag!”
“We have not,” I answered as she entered the room.
That day marked the first time I had lied to my mother, and the last time I lied to myself.
CHAPTER 23
The Breakup
By Arthur Winters, Attorney-at-Law
It had been raining out when I’d walked into Sherri’s building an hour before, and now as I left the sun was peeking through the clouds. I saw it as some kind of sign from Marilyn that I was moving in the right direction. It only helped my case that I looked particularly ridiculous today. I was wearing a slim-cut sports jacket with paisley lining and skinny jeans that Sherri had convinced me to buy a few weeks back. She said I was very close to looking hip. I said I was very close to needing a hip replacement. We laughed together for probably the last time that I can remember. We rarely got each other’s jokes.
My intention when I entered her apartment was to break up with her right away, but I soon came up with a bunch of excuses to delay it. She was a girl whose father had walked out on her, and she was making up for that loss with me. It wasn’t my money, although I’m sure that helped; it was my age—I was simply a stand-in father figure. This had a lot to do with the reason I hadn’t broken up with her sooner. I didn’t want to be another older man who left her. Plus I’d always hoped she would tire of me before this conversation would have to take place. I looked into her eyes and tried to gather my nerve.
Her eyes were so young-looking; they were often the thing that embarrassed me most about our age difference. Not her girlish figure, her luminous smile, or her soft skin, which had seen nearly half the sunny days that mine had, with twice the sunblock. It was her eyes. She had yet to develop the tiny lines that eventually spring out from the corners of people’s eyes like sunbeams signaling age, but also life. Whoever named those lines crow’s feet did them a huge etymological disservice. If they called them eagle’s feet, maybe they’d be worn like a badge of honor. I’ve come to see that recently. I never thought about it with Marilyn—we grew older together. But I see more beauty in eyes that have seen things. When I looked into Sherri’s youthful eyes, I saw an old man with a girl half his age. I saw the truth. I liked Felicia’s eyes. I realized that was the gist of what I had to explain to her.
She beat me to the punch. “Is something going on?” she asked, adding that she’d noticed that I had been distant lately. She’d have to be dense not to have noticed. I jumped on it, explaining to her, kindly, that I was worried I was wasting her time and that while I want to marry again, I want it to be to an equal, a teammate, not a trophy wife. Someone who’s at my stage in life, who’s had some of the same experiences, maybe. And then her young eyes started to cry and I felt bad. But she cried just a little bit, and really, just like that it was over. It was nothing compared to the histrionics that had surrounded that little black dress.
I handed her my handkerchief and she wiped her eyes with it. Afterward she straightened it out and ran her fingers over my initials sewn into the corner.
“Can I keep it?” she asked.
“Of course,” I responded.
I was surprised and touched by her sentiment, but as I left her building, the only real emotion I felt was relief.
CHAPTER 24
I Love New York!
By Sally Ann Fennely, Runway Model/New New Yorker