“Sure.”
She leads the way. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
“You always wanted to be a teacher. And you love kids.”
“Yeah. I was bummed when I had to quit school, but it was for Nonna.”
“So go back to school.”
I nod. I was going to college in Lawrenceville. Which is pretty far away. “Maybe a different school.”
“What about Montclair State?”
“Yeah.” I bob my head. “Yeah.”
Rachel finds two beautiful mid-century tables and arranges for delivery to her apartment.
“I’m so happy with them!” She tucks her wallet back into her purse. “Okay. I’m hungry. Let’s get dinner.”
We walk a few blocks to Choury, a Middle Eastern restaurant on Park Avenue. It’s a long, narrow place with bar seating at the open kitchen on one side and booths on the other. A cheerful server arrives at our table and we order a bottle of wine, an “amber” wine from Kartli, Georgia. It sounds intriguing: six-month skin contact inqvevri, traditional clay vessels buried underground, with notes of dried apricot, orange peel and honey. We also order hummus with their special hot sauce to start.
“What’s happening with Xander?” I ask her when we have our wine and hummus. “I’ve been so preoccupied with my own shit, I forgot about him. You guys went out. How was it?”
“Eh. Not great. I got the ick.”
“Oh dear. That’s not good. What was it?”
“He told me I’m not like other girls.”
I gasp. “No!”
“Yep. I think he thought it was a compliment.”
“What a dumb fuckface. Did you call him out?”
“I did. I told him he was implying that ‘other girls’ are superficial and stupid, and that kind of internalized misogyny can lead to women hating other women and a glorification of men’s attention as a means to self-worth.”
I grin. “I’m so proud of you.”
“He wasn’t so impressed.” She shrugs. “Whatever.”
The server comes back and we order a few small plates to share: Joojeh chicken kebabs, basmati rice pilaf, charred broccoli, and glazed sweet potatoes.
“So, back to your future.” Rachel picks up her wine glass.
“This is a nice glass.” I lift mine, too, and admire the delicate stem and the shape of the bowl.
“Don’t change the subject.”
I laugh. “I wasn’t! I like this glass!”
“Why not go back to school?”
The idea has been growing on me. “I’d like to.” I make a face. “Studying and having homework scares me but also… excites me. Hopefully, I can get back into it after years away.”
“It might be hard, but I know you can do it.”
