A man walks through the spotlight, and—for one moment—his face is highlighted. My heart leaps. He looks just like John when we first met. The man’s eyes briefly catch mine. He nods, and then he’s gone, moving through the dark like a ghost.
What’ll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?
When I’m alone with only dreams of you that won’t come true, what’ll I do?
What will I do without you, John?
When the song is over, I take a bow and then head into the darkness of the desert.
I think of Larry and Phil as I walk down the street, texting for an Uber.
So many people believed that John lived in my shadow, but he was my light. The moon, you realize, my dears, is only illuminated by the reflection of the sun.
I stop, feeling something unfamiliar, and look up.
It is raining in the desert.
Sid
Alone at a bar yet again.
The second half of the movie of my life has frequently been filled with such memorable lines as “Table for one?”, “Will someone be joining you?” (as the extra settings are swept from the table), “So, why are you still single?” and “Don’t you get lonely?”
I have never gotten used to going to a movie alone or having a drink by myself at a bar. I already feel so self-conscious sitting alone, and it doesn’t help that everyone stares as if I have two heads and whispers behind their hands, trying to figure out my story, before giving me that sad smile that reads,Widower,Loser, orToo uptight for a relationship.
Esther tells me that it is a sign of strength to navigate the world alone. I tell her she can barely navigate her SUV out of a Ralphs parking lot without orange cones and a traffic cop.
Over the din in Streetbar, I hear the song “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’ Sullivan in my head.
Could I be sadder on a Saturday night?
I need a laugh. I turn to ask Teddy if Gilbert O’Sullivan is Irish, or perhaps is related to Patty O’Furniture, but he looks sad tonight, too. Is it his sister that’s on his mind? Ron had toldme she had called during Church of Mary and that Teddy had ignored her.
I understand what it’s like to be ignored.
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Don’t turn around, Sid.
No one ever talks to an old man in a gay bar unless they’ve mistaken him for Harrison Ford or are blind drunk and want an easy target for a free drink.
I swivel on my barstool. A beautiful man is smiling at me.
I pivot my head around the bar, wondering who is lucky enough to be at the receiving end of this man’s radiance.
“Sid Silverstein?” he asks.
It finally hits me.
“Hot Jew?” I exclaim.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Oh, my God! I am so sorry,” I continue. “I am not a big drinker. My lips have little synchronicity with my brain but—after half a martini—there is zero control.”
“I take that as a compliment.” He laughs. “Don’t worry. I heard you and your friend the other day. She’s quite the fireplug.”
“In stature and volume.”
