I’m normally able to finish my work before Los Angeles is even conscious, which leaves the second part of the day for exploring. I’ll take the F train into the city and begin there, or I’ll explore Brooklyn. I venture out to Red Hook, visit art galleries and restaurants that only serve oysters and champagne on tap. I fondle trinkets in the real-life Etsy storefronts—candles shaped like elephants, hand-blown glass napkin rings.
When I hit a lull, or the ninety-degree summer heat becomes too much to bear, I’ll pop into a coffee shop and order an iced cortado with cinnamon and sit in the air-conditioning while I eat a chocolate chip cookie the size of my hand.
I pull on a white eyelet shirt and tuck it into the crepe shorts I already have on. I find a pair of black strappy sandals—no heel—grab a black faux leather clutch I bought at the farmers market in Brentwood, and head out the door.
The New York night is weighted. In Los Angeles even a one-hundred-degree day burns off into the seventies by 8:00 p.m., but in New York the heat lingers, sits like a first date closing down a bar.
I hop on the F, which everyone is telling me is nightmarish but actually seems totally fine. The train is about 70 percent empty, and in thirty minutes I’m being spit out onto Sixth Avenue at Fourteenth Street.
I’ll be about ten minutes early to dinner, so I take my time walking over to Fifth and then up to Twentieth Street. Flatiron is buzzing with activity—it’s a summer night in the city, and people are out enjoying the weather. A crew of Rollerbladers rolls down as a group of teenagers dips into an apartment building on lower Fifth. Seventeenth Street between Fifth and Sixth seems to be shut down for an evening fair, and adults enjoy open-air wine as kids run up and down the block chasing giant bubbles and balloon animals.
Everyone is always talking about how New York isn’t what it used to be, how the city is empty, how apartments sit vacant, and yet—the streets are packed, property values are on the rise. Nothing stays static forever, I think. But why is the past always memorialized as better? I never spent time in New York when I was young, but now that I’m less young I’m here and enjoying every beat of whatthisNew York is delivering.
Leo is already at the restaurant when I arrive, hovering by the door.
“You’re here,” I say. Ten minutes late for Leo is on time. I’m used to it.
“I am,” he says. “I had to run uptown and drop some stuff with post. Didn’t take as long as I expected.”
He cocks his head to the side, taking me in. “You look great.”
“So do you.”
He’s wearing khakis and a short-sleeved button-down. He has some TOMS slides on. He looks casual, relaxed, even if his forehead is beading up with sweat.
I give him a quick kiss. “Hi.”
“Hey, babe. Let’s go in before I melt.”
He opens the door, and I duck under his arm. He glides a hand onto my waist as I pass by him. I smell his cologne—something he hasn’t worn in so long. Cardamom and red wine. He smells like winter here tastes, and I imagine us walking into the same restaurant in December, snow on the ground.
The inside of Gramercy Tavern is old and oaken. We are having dinner in the Dining Room, which feels like a cross between a New York institution and a cozy den. As soon as we walk in, I immediately feel underdressed.
Men in suits with jackets slung over their chairs and sleeves pushed up to their elbows sit across from women in slim-fit black pants engrossed in their iPhones. The walls are cream, and there are high, dark beams overhead, heavy curtains separating the Dining Room from the bar and soft overhead lighting. If New York is not what it used to be, then this is what it was.
Leo raises his eyebrows at me.Fancy.
I wiggle them back.Do we dare?
Our last anniversary we spent in the hallway between our bedroom and bathroom. We had had plans to go out—pasta at our favorite, Donna’s, in Echo Park. We loved the cozy bar, simple sauce, and the fact that the owner, Michael, Negroni in hand, seemed to inhabit the place like a home, not a restaurant.
But my period came, the day before, and I was wrecked with pain. For some, fertility treatment has a negligent impact on their cycle, but for me it was brutal. I felt doubled over in cramps,nausea, breast tenderness that made my B cup start sleeping in a bra. Every time I took it off and let them down, it felt like I’d been punched in the chest.
I roll my shoulders, dislodging the memory. Tonight is not about one line or Clomid for a full fourteen days. Tonight is aboutus. Life is about us now.
We are seated at a table that is far too big for the two of us—square mahogany, set to perfection. We square off a corner of it as the waiter pulls back my chair.
“Someone will be over momentarily. I hear we are celebrating. Would either of you care for a glass of champagne?”
“Please,” Leo says, gesturing to me.
I open and close my mouth in a way I hope communicatesSame.
“We can’t afford this,” I tell Leo. “Can we?”
“Baby, I have a thousand dollars in twenties in my pocket.”
Leo’s pay is good, but the best part of the gig is that he gets a per diem. Every day, one hundred dollars in cash. Leo stuffs all of it into a Ziplock bag and hands me a wad every couple of days. I feel flush with cash.
