??I’ve never been the kind of therapist who bought into Freudian dream analysis I’m afraid, so I don’t have much for you on that front,??I responded.??But I’d have to agree that my subconscious is also probably mostly concerned with food too. Although for me it would be the ultimate New York choice of a black and white cookie. Or a bagel. Impossible to decide between carbs.??
All my other potential answers were too loaded to even consider:If you’re really good in bed, do you not have sex dreams?Wishful thinking.Maybe you’re too sexually satisfied to have sex dreams?Not what I want to even consider.Do you ever dream about me and you just can’t say that?Too creepy to even think about writing.
So as a result, I’m tired today from spending a night tossing and turning. After a week of hyperfocus-avoiding by considering and failing at a plot against Eli, the reminder of J both in written words and in therapist nudging made it impossible to go to sleep. And now this morning, out walking George, I’m dragging.
The only thing that got me up—other than George’s persistent whining and the necessity of seeing my first client at 9:00 a.m.—was the promise of the early-summer Wednesday farmers’ market. I’m lucky to live near the city’s oldest and largest, in Union Square. And I had to give those strawberries another whirl to see if half a week had made them even sweeter since I last talked to Kwan about them. And pick up some bread. And see if maybe there was rhubarb left too.
The desire to make a strawberry-rhubarb something was enough to get me moving. I threw on my favorite floral vintage romper and headed out the door with George. He trotted in front of me like a prince making his way through a crowd of loyal subjects. For such a cantankerous dog, he sure loves to parade in front of people. He’ll give a low growl to any poor enthusiast who thinks he must be friendly because he’s a small dog and try to pet him; but he certainly loves being outside and getting to see what’s happening.
And the market is almost invigorating enough to make me forget the fuzziness in my brain. This early, stalls are still finishing setting up, beckoning with their bounty. Bright-green textured lettuces are set out against deep-purple curved eggplant. Cheesemongers are forming their displays next to bakers’ stands. New York always feels at its most magical for me in the mornings, when it’s coming alive with community.
As I’m wrapping up my purchases, my phone rings. I’m surprised to see it’s my editor, Celia—she rarely calls me. We’re kind of a well-oiled machine at this point, and after seven years it’s extremely rare for her to have any commentary on my column.
“Hi, Celia,” I say, popping my headphones into my ears while I balance my tote bags, now laden with food. “Nice to hear from you.”
“Ilovedthe column this week, Eleonora,” she starts in. She’s the only person who even occasionally calls me Eleonora, which is how she claimed she could keep the column anonymous despite using my legal first name. “‘Sympathy for Sex Dreams’ is a great headline. Her poor husband, though! I’m not sure if I’d love it if Charles was waking up thinking about someone else.”
“Well, the subconscious does what the subconscious does,” I reply, wondering where this is going.
“Damn right!” she says with a laugh, and I consider if maybe she’s had some dreams of her own that she wouldn’t readily admit to. “Anyway, love, it’s so nice to hear your voice. How’ve you been?”
It’s funny how she says that as though we regularly catch up. We’ve been acquaintances since college, and I appreciated her thinking of me for the column, but I doubt we’d have maintained a real friendship otherwise. She moved back to London and I moved back to the US right after we graduated, and we mostly kept in touch through mutual liking of each other’s social media posts from time to time.
But after I finished grad school, she reached out with the idea for Ask Eleonora. Ever since I said yes, we’ve been in regular contact now through that, even though I’ve only seen her a handful of times when she’s been in New York. I do like her, though—she’s to the point and always has my back. She’s the kind of person who never asks for a favor that she wouldn’t give.
But because of that, and because most of our correspondence is over email, I know she’s not just calling to hear how I’ve been.
“I’m good. It’s been nice to have the days getting warmer,” I reply, hoping the easiest way to get through pleasantries with any Brit is to mention the weather.
“Oh, lucky. It’s still dreary in London, I’m afraid,” she replies, true to form.
“Well, soon enough,” I reply.
“Indeed,” she agrees succinctly, making me grateful knowing the chitchat is over. “Anyway, I wanted to give you a ring because I have some fun news!”
“Oh yeah?” I fidget with the strap of my bag, wondering what the possible context for that could be.
“I have a new boss who’s taking over Lifestyle, and she’s actually dying to meet you. She loves the column. They’re doing a little lunch reception for her in a couple months, once she gets her bearings, and I’d like you to fly in to see her. What do you think?”
I’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. I mutter apologies to the person who was walking behind me and almost ran into me when I made the cardinal New York sin of interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic.
I move to the side and lean against a wall. Is this kismet? Right when I tell Ari about J and when she’s now telling me todo something about it, a rationale to be in London opens up right in front of me? What better reason could I have to ask J if we should meet? Maybe he’ll even be at the reception?
“Nora?” Celia says, and I snap back to the call. Right. “I know you like being anonymous in your column, but this wouldn’t be a public event or anything. It’s not even seated, so if you didn’t want to make it a thing with anyone else at the paper, it wouldn’t have to be. I just know Donna—that’s the new boss—thought it would be fun if you came.”
“Oh, yeah, no, that sounds really fun,” I quickly reply, not wanting my silence to make Celia think I’m ungrateful. “I’d have to figure out the timing, of course ...”
There’s a part of me that wants to blame work and busyness and say no to it so I don’t have to actually face up to seeing J. Ari’s right that I avoid hard things, and this is, most definitely, a version of a hard thing. If I go to London, I’ll have no excuse not to reach out, and that thought terrifies me.
But I have to admit that without the J stuff, I would say yes in a second. Not because I need to go back to London so badly (althoughwho would say no to that? I do miss the UK after having spent so much time there for college), but because if Celia’s asking me for something, I should say yes. Doing the column has been such a bright spot for me. And I owe this to her if she wants me there.
“But of course I’ll come,” I say.
“Wonderful!” Celia exclaims, with a bit more glee in her voice.
“Great,” I reply, a little dumbfounded at the implications of what I’ve just agreed to.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Celia says, in her typically polite brush-off. “The event will be at the start of August, so we have a couple of months to make plans. I’ll send you all the details over email, and we can coordinate from there.”
