Arnie nuzzles up against me, burrowing his head into my shoulder like he understands every word.
When Chris gets back on Sunday night, he’s got these ridiculous sunglass tan lines. He looks like a raccoon and I tell him that right away.
His peeling face twitches, just a little. It frustrates me, but I like it too, how he doesn’t smile or laugh in that over-the-top way. He doesn’t waste expressions that he doesn’t mean, and that’s a rare thing these days.
“How did it go with Olivia’s parents?” I ask oh so nonchalantly.
“Oh, it was fine.” He leans down to wrap Arnie up in a big fat hug. Chris is looking way too relieved to see his pup alive and well after spending the weekend with me. I should find it offensive but I just find it endearing.
I raise my eyebrows at Chris’s answer, let them stick to the top of my forehead. “‘Fine’?” I echo back. “‘Fine’ is the dullest word in the entire dictionary. ‘Fine’ isn’t even really a feeling at all; it’s the absence of feeling.”
Chris looks at me like I’m overreacting, which just makes me want to react even more. “Alright then, it went well,” he says. “Very well. How’s that?”
“Fabulous,” I mutter, though I’m not feeling very fabulous. I’m all ruffled inside. I was sort of hoping he’d tell me it was a giant fiasco, only because I like conflict and all. No deeper reason than that.
The next week I’m supposed to come by on Thursday again, but I lose track of the days, maybe on purpose or maybe not. I come over on Wednesday night, or at least that’s what Chris tells me.
He’s just getting back from work, and rather than turning me away, he says he’s about to order some dinner for delivery and asks if I want some.
It’s against my principles to pass up free meals, so I say sure, if it’s vegan. He makes a face at that but goes along with it and lets me pick the restaurant. We order from Le Botaniste in SoHo. I’ve had it a few times before, ordered it for delivery to the Inn, and it’s my favorite despite everything being over twenty dollars. I get the Tibetan Mama bowl and he tries to order pasta, but I tell him no, that’s way too safe, he’s got to branch out of his comfort zone. I talk him into the Magic Miso instead and he’s very skeptical of all the spices, but when it arrives, he admits that it’s really not bad at all. That isn’t a compliment but it’s not an insult, so I take it for now and figure we’ll work our way up the enthusiasm spectrum.
I feed some of my food to Arnie under the table. He’s a more adventurous eater than Chris. It’s a pretty great night and I come back the next day too, which is when Chris is actually leaving for the weekend.
I’m sort of scared to see him again, I’m not sure why, but it just feels like he’s been intruding into my life a lot lately. I want some personal space, so I make sure to get there late so he has to head out right away. He probably thinks I’m being irresponsible, but I can live with that.
Once he’s gone, I take Arnie out for a late-night stroll and let him lead again. He heads straight to the Hudson River. The water is breathing calmly as it rocks the docked yachts and sailboats up and down, up and down, with far too much compassion for what the obscenely lavish vessels deserve. The river is a smooth mirror for the jagged skyline, and I wonder if it ever wishes it could reflect back something else, a simple farmhouse or just the open sky.
Arnie and I look for stars. We like spotting a few stubborn ones that won’t be thwarted by all the light pollution. They’ll make sure they’re seen from everywhere.
Back at the apartment, Chris has stocked the freezer with four pints of my favorite coconut milk ice cream. I think I mentioned the brand to him once, and it’s a thoughtful thing for him to do. I know I’m doing a big favor for him and all by watching Arnie, but still, it shows that he values me. I tell myself this makes me feel good but really it makes me feel bad, almost like I’m not worthy of it, which is a ridiculous thought, but I can’t really help it. I guess I’m just feeling like there’s a lot of potential to Chris, but he just needs to break out of his own body and mind and let his heart do some cartwheels. But it’s probably a lost cause by now. You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.
Arnie barks, like he’s saying that’s not true, he can learn new tricks even though he’s kind of old. I wonder if there’s something to that, so I try to teach him how to do a fist pump, like the Redstocking symbol, the one we have painted onto the wall of the Inn. Sure enough, he learns it in two days with a little help from the peanut butter cookie dog treats that Chris said I should use sparingly. But “sparingly” is subjective and this is important.
When Chris gets back from the weekend, I have Arnie fist-pump him hello. I tell Chris about the significance of the fist pump and the Redstockings’ role in the Women’s Liberation Movement and how they didn’t wait for anyone to open a door for them, that theywent outdoors instead, into the streets. Chris says he likes the fist pump trick, but he seems hesitant about all the feminism stuff, like it’s too out there for him.
This gets under my skin. “Do you identify as a feminist?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a moment, which says it all. “I’m not sure,” he finally decides. “I’m all for women’s rights and everything, but the wordfeministhas kind of a radical connotation, doesn’t it?”
“Only if you think equality is radical.” It makes me remember just how far apart Chris’s universe is from mine. How their orbits would never ever overlap and I’d never even want them to.
“I support equality,” Chris says. “I just don’t like how some feminists make women feel bad for staying home to raise kids when it’s what some women want to do. Like my mom. She loved it.”
“She probably felt like shehadto do that,” I say.
“No,” Chris says, standing his ground in an infuriating but impressive sort of way.
“She made the choice on her own and wouldn’t have traded it for the world. She’s told me that verbatim.”
“Well, then it’s a classic example of patriarchal brainwashing,” I explain. “It runs so deep in our society that the women themselves don’t even notice it. They’re tricked into thinking they’ve won some great prize by staying at home with the kids when actually they’ve lost their whole identities. All their big dreams shriveled up to fit inside their kids’ lunch boxes.”
Chris says he’s tired and that he’s got to do some work before bed. I know this is my cue to leave, but I can’t let this drop now that I’ve picked it up.
“How many women do you work with?” I ask him.
“Quite a few,” he says.
I probe into what jobs they do and how much they make. My suspicions are confirmed as Chris says most of them workas administrative assistants or in the marketing department and generally get paid significantly less than the accountants.
