Anything But Moon
I didn’t realize I was being set up on a blind date.
That’s how far my mind was from that. I hadn’t lived alone since college—first roommates, then a boyfriend for nine years, then seven months of limbo before I moved out. Now, it was just me and my cat, Lloyd, in a tiny rent-controlled apartment, and we were loving it.
I was deep in the early days of grad school.
After eleven years away from school, everything felt new. New classes, new ideas. It felt like a rediscovery. My ex had chipped away at me for years, deferring to his opinions until I didn’t even dress myself freely.
We’d leave the apartment, then he’d say it on the sidewalk.
“Your outfit looks really weird.”
And I’d rush back inside to change.
By Spring, the fourth semester in grad school, I was wearing my old treasures again. I put on a red and white polka-dotted dress, tailored for my aunt before I was born, which I’d updated by removing the sleeves and pairing with a white pair of Swedish Hasbeens. A former fashion designer in class saw me and said, “You look fabulous!”
That compliment stayed with me all day.
It was a reminder of the parts of me that had been ignored, hidden, invalidated.
One day, I sat next to a woman who looked closer to my age, made a joke, and she actually laughed. The next week in the hall she asks me, out of the blue: “Want to go to dinner with my boyfriend and me? His friend is an artist, you’re an artist… I think you’ll get along.”
She got my email. Sent the details. Next Friday.
Then, Thursday afternoon, an email. “My boyfriend and I can’t make it,” she wrote. “But would you still want to go with his friend? This is his email.”
Even then, I didn’t get it.
When I got home, I looked him up.
The home page of his website was a grid of his work. Mostly photographic self-portraits. In one, he was a silhouette with grass sprouting from his head. In another, his ears were photoshopped large and pointy, vaguely vampiric.
And then I saw it.
A portrait of him with a red communist star stuck into one eye.
And a single drop of blood dripping down that cheek.
I paused. There was a very real possibility this guy is a psycho. But a handsome, unusual, creative psycho.
I decided to flirt with disaster.
***
He suggested we meet in front of the New Museum—another flirt with disaster, since I’d never seen a show there I liked. But I was already taking a chance, so why not take another?
Walking across the Bowery, I spotted him immediately.
His posture was perfectly straight, and I remember thinking that was the sign of integrity. He was looking in the opposite direction, so I got to watch him for a moment before he saw me.
We greeted each other, and he headed right for the entrance. Guess we’re going in.
The show, against all odds, was good, really good. The piece that stood out was in a small, guarded room. On a stand was a life-size casket containing a hyper-realistic corpse of JFK. It was unsettling. As we stared at the installation, the museum guard watched *us*.
My date said something witty.
The guard burst out laughing.
And the three of us stood there in that claustrophobic little room, cracking each other up, over a fiberglass dead president.
***
After, he took me to Savoy. A couple of sips of wine, and another couple walked in. They implored: if we moved to the left, then they could sit next to each other. My date deftly moved himself like a knight in a game of chess. He jumped over me, so I didn’t have to, while accommodating the other couple. The bartender gave me a knowing wink.
Eventually, we walked to Union Square to catch the L train in opposite directions. It was nippy outside, and I felt my body relax as we entered the warm, underground air.
He stopped, looked me directly in the eyes…
And encircled me with his long arms, without a single point of contact. An air hug.
Then he said goodnight, turned, and walked away.
The proverbial “nothing but net” had become “anything but me.” I was stunned. I thought we had a wonderful night. I felt a vivid connection. But he avoided touching me. That means no chemistry, I guess.
When I got home, I emailed my friend.
“Had a great time. He doesn’t like me though. He gave me an air hug.”
The next morning, I woke up to an email from him.
No subject line. No words.
Just a JPG.
It was a silhouette of his face, a long-stemmed rose held between his lips.