I stammered. “Excuse me?”
Wes made a low whistle. “And you call yourself a New Yorker.” He shook his head.
Okay, so an egg cream was clearly a dessert and not a sex act. Could I really be blamed after a night of orgasming prophets and deep-throating nuns?
We crossed the street at Wes’s forced glacial pace. “Three ingredients: seltzer, chocolate syrup, and milk.”
I tried not to make a face, as this was clearly a passion of Wes’s. “So… carbonated chocolate milk?”
He nodded. “The best one was at this tiny bodega in the East Village, but it’s closed now.”
“R.I.P.”
Wes sighed. “Indeed. This one’s good, definitely one of the better ones. Nothing’s worse than an improperly layered and mixed egg cream.”
“Right… so how often are you drinking these, buddy?”
Wes held the door open for me, his lips curved up. “A few a year, but not for the taste. For the experience. The history. The reminder of belonging to a particular place and time.”
Now, it was my turn to stare. “You are so…” I searched my mind for the word I wanted to use, but I was interrupted before I could find it.
“Wes!” a man behind the counter called, setting his phone down with a grin. He had an infectious smile, and he couldn’t be a day over twenty.
Wes grinned back, gently guiding me forward in a way I was starting to crave. In a way I reallyshouldn’thave been craving. The burn of his touch was slow to fade.
“Omar, how are you? And how’s your dad?”
“I’m great. And he’s grumpy. Nothing’s changed there,” Omar said. He rolled his eyes with a shrug.
“Sounds about right. Everyone healthy?”
“Yeah, yeah, man. We’re all good. How are you? How’s Brooklyn?”
Wes shrugged. “Less noise, more Doc Martins.”
I looked down at my aching feet and longed for my Doc Martins over the heels I had chosen. But what was womanhood if not becoming blind to one’s own suffering?
Omar laughed. “Totally, man. What can I get for you two?”
“Y’all still do egg creams?” Wes asked, scanning their menu of smoothies and coffee drinks. When Omar nodded enthusiastically, Wes asked for two.
Omar got to work, and a second man appeared to take over the cash register for a woman carrying Oreos and a canned cocktail.
“You were saying?” Wes prompted as we stepped out of the way. “What am I, Nova?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it. I had absolutely no idea what Wes was. Maybe it was the writer in me, but I found myself grouping everyone I met into archetypes. That wasn’t to say everyone wasn’t unique in their own way, but there were still quantifiable patterns. As far as men went, there were the Burning Man enthusiasts who lived in conscious co-living communities in Bushwick. The entrepreneur types who talked a lot about biohacking and Robert Greene and always had a new side hustle. The classic beer-and-sports dudes who had at least one dog, only answered dating app prompts with one-word answers or emojis, and didn’t use punctuation. There were the straight white men with mustaches who read bell hooks and refused to laugh at any joke that had the wordgayin it, even if it was told by a gay person. The real estate agents with veneers. The Nice Guys in creative fields who smoked a lot of weed and whined about the modern woman’s unrealistic expectations. The classic perfect boyfriend with outdoorsy hobbies and no hot takes who seamlessly blended into any friend group.
But Wes… what thehellwas Wes?
I evaded his teasing question and stalled with one of my own once we’d stepped back outside with our plastic cups of fizzy chocolate milk. “How do you even know bodega guys over here?”
Wes’s eyes sparkled. “I talk to people. Enjoy it, even,” he said. “And I used to live in Manhattan.”
He didn’t specify where, but I assumed it was Chelsea. Unless he was implying he knew bodega guys everywhere, like some omniscient Bodega God.
“Well?” he asked, nodding to my cup.
I took a deep breath and raised the straw to my lips. I took the plunge, letting the fizzy chocolate frothed milk wash over my tongue. “It tastes like sparkling chocolate milk.”
