Wyatt:How much do you care about disappointing this friend?
Me:She’s in my class and about thirty times cooler than I am. I want her to like me.
Wyatt:Well then, I hate to say it, but you might have to go to whatever it is. Think of this like an anthropological expedition. You’re an intrepid explorer, studying hitherto unknown spiritual practices of the rare and oft-misunderstood New York theist.
I cringe so hard I can basically feel myself disappearing into my own bones.
And then I type the next bit anyway.
Me:Yeah, maybe. Only I wish it was as exotic as going to some Pentecostal speaking-in-tongues revival. But it’s just Jewish people, so, you know, I’ve been intrepidly exploring this particular brand of New York theist since birth.
Me:It’s for my capstone project.
Me:don’t hate me.
It does take Wyatt a moment to respond this time. Probably because he’s punching himself in the face out of sheer disappointment in me.
Then he starts typing. I stare at those three dots.
Finally:
Wyatt:I could never. Do it for the bagels.
Well, I can’t disappoint Wyatt. So I guess I’m going to Shabbos with Michal.
Just for the bagels, of course.
¦
But when Friday comes, dread rises with it. Trepidation settles like sickness in my gut, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore it.
Sorry, I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. Raincheck?
There’s not gonna be a raincheck. But still, it feels more polite to pretend.
Michal texts back about an hour later:Of course, no problem. Hope you feel better soon! Let me know if I can bring you some soup or something.
Her kindness only worsens the guilt.
But all I feel as I head home at the end of the day, crammed into a subway car with all the other exhausted commuters ready for the weekend, is relief.
¦
Ophelia’s there when I get home that day. She’s perched on the sofa wielding a bottle of sparkly gold nail polish. Her fingers already glitter—she’s hunched over taking care of her toes, although she spares a glance up as I dump my bag on the island and head for the fridge to pour myself a glass of grapefruit juice.
“You good?” she says.
“Yeah.” I shove the fridge door shut with my hip. “Why?”
“Because you have this look on your face like you wanna claw someone’s tonsils out.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, because she’s probably right. “Sorry. It’s nothing. I made plans to hang out with someone, then I chickened out.” I down half the glass of juice in one go. “So. What are you up to tonight?”
“Diego’s friend Denni is throwing this party. East Village. Sounds like it should be fun. Parties with Diego’s crowd usually are; everyone he knows is an actor or a drag queen or some kind of performance artist who only speaks in whale sounds. Occasionally all three. Want to come?”
I can picture it now, some artist’s garret on Avenue C with sultry mood lighting and Bowie on repeat. The hazy miasma of weed smoke. Pizza going cold in boxes on the counter. The host’s overly affectionate cat crawling from lap to lap. Spilled beer, a stranger’s urine speckling the toilet seat. Kissing someone in a dark bedroom while the music thrums—indistinct—just outside.
It’s so far from my plans with Michal, so much so that the two experiences feel like they should exist in opposition to each other. Shabbos is candlelight and prayers in Hebrew and challah crumbs down the front of your shirt. It’s eating until you feel sick. It’s your uncle’s tone-deaf and wordless singing to an ancient tune that lives in your blood. It’s the Shabbos bride dressed in splendor, G-d turning his brilliant face to gaze on mankind.
