Past the Point of Reason

            Reading ‘uplifting’ quotations from arrogant famous people didn’t work. Neither did watching reruns of Sex and the City or Felicity. And whoever said eating shitloads of ice cream would be effective deserves to be shot. Okay, perhaps a shooting would be a wee bit excessive, but whatever. Needless to say, love’s presence is nothing compared to its absence.

            He’s called me, give or take, about a gazillion times. I haven’t answered yet, though. It’s hard to reach the receiver when, you know, the bed is so far away. I feel so immature – like, wasn’t this whole first-heartbreak/heartache/jeez-why-in-the-world-can’t-I-get-the-fuck-over-it feeling supposed to happen in, I don’t know, about ninth grade or something? How could I be so stupid as to waver in my all-guys-are-pricks-PERIOD mantra? Why did I have to succumb to a relationship when hooking up has really, kind of sort of, somewhat – really most of the time – been enough for me? I should have known better.

            Who the hell am I kidding? There was no way I could have foreseen this – a fiancé. Maybe I could have. I don’t know, whatever. Were the signs there? Did I really become so blinded by him, by Amar, that I failed to see his secret lurking underneath his sweetness? And why does my mind keep spinning, presenting question after question, self-doubt after self-doubt, leaving me in this endless circle of why, why, why?

            Just as I’m about to get out of bed – well, ponder the idea of getting out of bed…

            Ring! Ring! Ring!

            I know it’s him. I know what he’s going to say, again. Yet, something keeps my ears open, listening for that haha-this-was-all-just-a-nightmare-in-your-head revelation, all to no avail.

            “Miss Monet,” the answering machine plays, his voice sounding eerily un-calm, un-Amar-like, “Miss Monet, please. Please pick up your telephone. Would you please just listen to me? I just…I just…I just. I just do not really know what to tell you. I am so deeply sorry, dear. That is why I kept pulling away when you tried to kiss me. But, after a while, I just could not not kiss you, Miss Monet. I had to. I had to, I needed to, I wanted to be with you. I have never loved her, ever. I really do mean that, I..I..I,” he pauses. I can hear him sobbing. “I really do love you, Miss Monet, not her. I love you. I am in love with you. You don’t know. It has always been an arranged marriage – not out of love, not at all, Miss Monet. But with you, with you…with you, I really do feel it. I must see you, must talk to you, must hold you, Miss Monet. Please give me that chance. Please.”

            Ah, eureka. That’s why my mind keeps spinning. I have become that girl – the girl who loves the boy so much that she can’t separate the words from the actions, the truth from the lies, the heart from the head. Is it because I’ve never really loved a boy before? Is it because I’ve never met a boy like Amar  to love before? If lies lie in the mix, is it really love at all? Is it?

            But if it’s not, if it never was, if it never has been, than why do I feel this way? Why do I wish he, Amar, was lying beside me? Why do I know, that if he were, I would feel that indescribable feeling, that feeling that makes all others insignificant, that feeling that, for the first time, I knew I deserved to feel?

*          *          *          *          *

            With just two weeks until graduation, school seems kind of pointless. I still go, just as a distraction  really, but nonetheless. I haven’t, however, gone to that class – the class that he’s in. Maybe that’s stupid, but I’m not ready for that yet. I can’t see him yet. I want to, but I can’t.

            Riding up the elevator to my apartment, I can’t believe this, this whole thing, was because I threw a damn quarter. I mean, what if? What if I never had thrown it? What would have happened then? Graduation would mean nothing more than the end of school. It wouldn’t involve him, or me and him, or him and her. It wouldn’t mean deciding whether or not to say good-bye before he goes back home, whether or not to…

            Whether or not to say something when he’s sitting outside of my apartment.

            “Amar, what are you doing here?” I ask, flabbergasted.

            “Oh, Miss Monet, Miss Monet. I am so glad you are here,” he replied, looking noticeably disheveled.

            “I don’t know what to say to you, to be honest,” I reply.

            “Oh, you do not have to explain yourself at all, Miss Monet,” he says. “It is me that needs to do the talking. Can I come in, please, and have you listen to me?”

            I don’t respond.

            “Miss Monet? I will leave afterwards. I just need to tell you. No more lies, Miss Monet. Please just give me a few minutes.”

            I don’t say anything, just open the door and leave it ajar.

*          *          *          *          *

            He told me everything. He told me about her, about his parents, about arranged marriage. He told me what would happen if his parents found out, if she found out – found out about me and every wonderful that had transpired until the truth came out. He told me he was sorry, so sorry he had left me in the dark, so sorry he had caused me pain. But, he said, he was not sorry he had looked at me, talked to me, walked with me. He did not regret holding hands with me, kissing me, making love to me. And, he said, he never once wished he had not fallen in love with me. “You,” he said, “you, Miss Monet, you have made me realize love cannot be arranged, cannot be planned, cannot be forced. Loving you, Miss Monet, requires no rationalization.”

            He told me why he had decided to study abroad, to leave home, to come here in the first place. Not because, he said, he wanted to escape the marriage, but because he wanted to make sure he would not want to later on, to make sure he was going to be as happy as possible, to make sure his love was not better spent being felt, as opposed to being faked. He told me there was no way he could go through with the marriage now, now that he had learnt of real love, of true love, of “your love, Miss Monet.” He told me he was going to go back home after graduation, going to break up with her, going to be ostracized by his parents, going to get a job, going to hope I would forgive him.

            And then he left my apartment, eyes wet and pleading for pardon. And I closed the door, laid down on my bed – the bed where he had slept, the bed where we had slept, the bed where his smell still lingered – and cried, once again absolutely and unabashedly torn.

*          *          *          *          *

            My lease is up. I have four days to decide whether the next twelve months of my life will continue to unfold here, or if they would be better spent somewhere else. Where, I really have no clue. Not back to New York, that’s for sure. Not a few hours south – too many freeways and fledgling anorexics. Not a few hours north – too many degrees in the summer and too few in the winter. I am literally and shittily stuck in the middle.

Why does everything in life have to be choice, a cause-and-effect causeway between right and wrong, good and bad, best and worst? Maybe, though, maybe that’s always been my problem. Maybe I need an extreme, whether it is the smart side of the spectrum or the stupid one. Maybe too north or too south is where my future lies. Hmm. I don’t sign the renewal form.

*          *          *          *          *

            My navy robe brings out the blue in my eyes, the blonde in my brunette, the smile in my solitude. My parents weren’t able to make it to the ceremony, but, as odd as it sounds, I don’t mind. In fact, it’s better that they’re not here, because, of course, they’ve never really been ‘there.’ It’s always been just me, and, for the first time since, jeez, since ever, being alone does not make me feel lonely.

            I must admit, however, it is hard to maintain that notion when he, when Amar, keeps looking over his shoulder at me during the ceremony. As I sit in my toupee-tinged folded chair, I notice him, a few rows in front of me, his eyes still pleading, still wondering, still gleaming as bright as the lagoon behind us, hoping that perhaps I’ll come around before it’s too late, before he leaves, before he’s gone.

            I like being alone, though I really do. I mean, independence, right? Right?

*          *          *          *          *

            I walk back to my apartment in my robe, gazing quizzically from apartment to apartment, frat house to sorority house, bike rack to bike rack, mentally marveling at the idea of graduation. I mean, when you think about it, completing four years of high school or four years of college doesn’t really merit a fulfillment of any kind. Sure, it merits an accomplishment, but, other than that, what does it really leave you with, other than another series of accomplishments to meet? I mean, when you think about it, life is really just countless stream of graduations. But I want more than that. I want that sense of fulfillment, that sense that can’t be acquired from a robe and a tassel or from a promotion and an office, but that sense that only comes not from a checked-off list, but from a list thrown up in the air, landing where it lands, leading where it leads.

*          *          *          *          *

“Chica, you don’t have to go,” Juan says, following me around as I scan my empty, packed-up apartment for any remnants of the last four years left to be accounted for.

“Juan, I do. I do. Le fatarle, though, Juan. I will miss you, Senor,” I say, my smile thanking him for all the good he’s given me over the years.

As I walk out onto the balcony, surveying the emptiness, I see something sparkly, something shiny, something begging to be found. Curious, I bend down, sliding my hand through the wooden rails, reaching to the very corner edge of the balcony to grab it. It’s a…It’s a…It’s a damn quarter. With 2008 on it. A 2008 quarter on the edge of my balcony. The 2008 quarter I threw that night he didn’t kiss me.

How come it landed here, just barely making it, just barely within my periphery? How come I did not see this before, in the five months that have passed since its landing? Why, why, why?

“Juan,” I say, “I really do have to go now.”

And, after grabbing my suitcases and bear-hugging Juan, I see the elevator. I see it all now.

*          *          *          *          *

Taxis are nearly as bad as subways. Nearly. When the driver stops at the airport, cueing me to pay up, the total is $20.25 and I only have a Jackson. He’s not getting this quarter. No, not this one. I escape his bitching, running to the ticket counter.

*          *          *          *          *

I’m glad I’m wearing a dress. It’s hot. Sitting on the bench outside, suitcases at my feet, I flip open my cell phone, praying to Motorola I didn’t delete any phonebook names in haste. No, phew, I didn’t. I dial, an answer. I smile, waiting.

*          *          *          *          *

There are so many sounds, so many noises, so much static. That is, until, I hear it clearly.

“Miss Monet!”

Looking up, looking around the colorful haze that decorates the New Delhi airport, I see him, Amar, clearly, him and his bicycle fast approaching.

“Miss Monet, Miss Monet, Miss Monet,” he whispers as he stands before me, inches from my face.

“You see this thing,” I say, holding up the quarter, my eyes not leaving his for a second, “I hate these things. They have been the bane of my existence for so long. For so long…until now.”

He waits, sensing I have more to say.

“When this thing, this vile thing first came into my life, I was sad. I was upset and worried that you didn’t like me. And when I got rid of it, things got good. They got great. When I found it for the second time, I was sad again. But this time I wasn’t upset because you didn’t like me. I was worried that I had let myself like you too much, too deeply. Too much love. I was worried that I loved you past the point of reason, of logic. But then I realized there is no such thing. Love is not reasonable or logical or too great. And,” I pause, catching my breath, “I knew I had to come, had to see you, had to be with you again, had to let things get great again.”

“I am so very glad, Miss Monet, my dear,” he says, his eyes freed from their pleading.

“So…” I say, smiling, cocking my head in my you-can-kiss-me-now manner.

And he does, making the inches previously separating us seem like miles as he wraps his arms around my waist, my back, his hands around my face, letting me know the fifteen-hour flight was well worth it.

As he picks up my bags and I sit atop his bike’s handlebars, he says, “Miss Monet, want to know the best thing about India?”

“What?”

“Rupees.”

“What do you mean?”

“No quarters, Miss Monet, no quarters.”

I smile and say, “Let’s go.”

“But, Miss Monet, what about that quarter?” he asks, pointing to the 2008 coin.

And so, as we pedal away, I hold the quarter up, toss it behind me, letting it land where it lands, letting it lead where it leads.

 

 

           

           

           

Lovestoned

            This is okay. This is okay. This is okay. It doesn’t mean anything, really. Totally not a big deal. Nothing to stress about. I mean, think about all the starving children. Think about the homeless. Think about abandoned puppies. Think about…Think about…Think about…

            Think about WHY HE DIDN’T KISS ME!

            It’s not his fault, I suppose. I mean, my expectations for this whole thing, this date were way too high anyway. I would have been better off, really, just watching Jon Stewart. Really, I would have. Because, seriously, I mean, he’s just some guy. Nothing important or special or different or mysterious or exotic or sweet or nice or handsome or charming or sexy about him. He’s not any of those things, anyway. Really. He’s just like all the other guys I’ve been with.

            Except I wasn’t ‘with’ him because HE DIDN’T KISS ME!

            As I sit collapsed on the stairwell, mascara snaking its way down my cheeks, I glance around, hoping that no one – and I mean, no one – has fallen prey to my Lifetime-movie-esque loser-tude. And that’s when I see it. A quarter. Right by the entrance door it lies, gleaming in all of its self-righteous glory. It’s a new one, 2008 plastered on its cocky coin-face. The bastard. Knowing all too well that my night’s circumstances could be totally and completely put upon this horrendous medal object, I approach it, undeniably eager to put it in its place. Picking it up, my mind scrolls through its ‘If-only-I-had-a-quarter’ scrapbook, desperate for some vengeance. I hold it up in the air, destination in sight, when…

            “Chica, chica!”

            Thrown off balance, the quarter sails behind me, soaring above and beyond, landing wherever with a very distinctive clunk.

            “Juan, you scared me!”

            “Lo siento, chica, lo siento. Porque triste?”

            Blubbering, I respond, “My date. No good.”

            “Porque?”

            “No se, Juan. No se. I don’t know. I’m too ugly, or too stupid, or too weird. I don’t know.”

            “Chica, chica, chica. No, no, no. Hermosa y flaca y elegante.”

            “I don’t know, Juan. I don’t know why I never get it right.”

            “Maybe it’s not you, chica.”

            “What do you mean, Juan?”

            “You’re good, chica. Pero, su chicos no son buenos.”

            I look at him, my eyes pleading for sweet relief.

            “Feel better, chica.”

            Walking up to my apartment, I look in the window and can’t help but laugh. I have chutney on my chin. And lipstick on my teeth. And the aforementioned mascara rainfall. And…and…the flower he put in my hair. Maybe Juan was right. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe my man choices are made wrongly. But, I don’t know, something about him, about Amar, just felt something unlike all the other ones.

            While I’m brushing my teeth – why those two minutes pass so slowly is an oddity – my eyes play a dirty trick on me. My answering machine is blinking. Red light on, red light off. Red light on, red light off. Could it be? Did he, did Amar, call me back? Once again, my pendulum swings – should I check my messages? I’m never been prone to superstitions, but something is telling me to hold back, think it through, wait. But, then again, how long am I going to have to wait?

            Oh, right. Maybe I’ll just have to wait until I see him in class tomorrow.

*          *          *          *          *

            “Miss Monet, your hair is very nice. Did you do something to it?” Amar asks as I plop – gracefully – in the lecture-hall seat next to him.

            “What? Oh, no. No. No. I mean, I woke up like this,” I lie. Damn – I knew the curls, plus the dress, plus the perfume were a wee bit too much.

            “Did you get my message, Miss Monet?”

            “Message? Did you leave me a message?”

            “Yes, I did. I just wanted to tell you what a nice time I have with you. It was nice, don’t you think, Miss Monet?”         

            “Yeah, it was…”

            “Miss Monet, look…”

            Just as he’s about to speak, some guy – some Indian guy – comes up to him, a weird look on his face.

            “Amar, man, how’s it going?” the weirdo asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

            “Good, good. How are you, Shaunveer?”

            “Very good, very good. I just got back today – went back home for the holiday.”

            “Oh really?” Amar asks, appearing somewhat flustered as I sit there awkwardly, wondering why he has yet to introduce me.

            “Yes, home. Did you forget about that place or something, man? You know, home.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Shaunveer.”

            “Right, of course you don’t,” the weirdo says, looking at Amar, then me, then back again.            “Good morning,” the professor says, prompting the weirdo to sit to the other side of Amar, thus – thank you very much, Weirdo – ending any hopes I had of resolving last night’s kiss-free farewell.

*          *          *          *          *

            Standing outside the lecture hall, I make a very, very, very, very drawn-out process of placing my things in my bag, hoping that doing so will allow enough time for Amar  and the weirdo to stop talking. Because, of course, I want him to talk to me. My plan, however, fails – I really should have known – and I walk away, wishing I could just go back to my apartment and sleep off this man-caused malaise.

            Walking down the campus promenade, obviously pondering the meaning of life and my place in it and why, oh why I can’t seem to ever get anything right, I mean especially with guys and all…

            “Miss Monet! Miss Monet!”

            Turning around, I see him, Amar, running to catch up with me, his books held firmly up to his chest.

            “Miss Monet, where did you go? I looked all around and I could not find you!”

            “Well, I left. You and that guy were talking and all and I…I just left.”

            “I am sorry about that guy. Don’t mind him. Will you forgive me, Miss Monet?” he asks, his eyes piercing through my solid resolve.

            “Forgive you?” I ask, my inquiry giving way to laughter. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “I am deeply sorry about last night, Miss Monet. I never meant to make you feel a certain way.”

            “A certain way?”

            “I never meant to make you think I didn’t like you.” He pauses. “I like you very much, Miss Monet.”

            Yet again, his blatant lack of cockiness/arrogance/jerk-ness/asshole-in-Rainbows-ness – traits so prominent in all my other male experiences – invokes my consequential smile.

            Realizing my momentary verbal incapacitation, he asks, “How about we go on another shopping trip, Miss Monet? I need some help decorating my apartment?”

            I just nod. Nod, nod, nod, nod, nod.

*          *          *          *          *

            I have to admit, his apartment does reek of caveman. Not in the sense that he smells bad or is crazy muscular – because he totally does not smell bad but I guess, I mean, he might be kind of muscular, but not that I’ve noticed or anything – but in the sense that it hasn’t really been lived in. As I help him put away the drinking glasses, plates, blankets, and rugs that we bought – correction, that we spent four glorious hours perusing the mall for – I can feel him looking at me.

            “What?” I giggly ask, cocking my head as I look at him.

            “Miss Monet, I must say, you really are exquisite.”

            “Exquisite?” I ask. “I don’t know if I’d say ‘exquisite.’”

            “No, you wouldn’t, but I would. You are, Miss Monet. I am really glad I have met you.”

            This time, I know. I know he’s going to kiss me. I lean in, oh-so looking forward to a kiss from Amar.

            Except, he doesn’t – he pulls away again.

            Embarrassed, furious, and hurt, I grab my purse and run to the door, praying to my eyes to please, please, hold the tears until I’m gone.

            “Miss Monet, wait!” he says, running towards the door.

            “What?”

            “Don’t go, please, don’t go.”

            “Why? So you can keep rejecting me over and over again? I don’t think so! You know, I thought you were different. I thought that maybe, I don’t know,” I stutter, cursing my eyes for their premature rainfall, “I thought maybe you would treat me right, treat me not like all the other guys treat me. You said you liked me.”

            “Miss Monet, please…”

            “No, good-bye.”

            But just as I reach for the doorknob, he, Amar, grabs my forearm.

            “Miss Monet, I do like you. I just…I just…I just…”

            “What?”

            And just like that, he kisses me. But he doesn’t just kiss me. With both hands on my face, he brings me close to him, enveloping me in his calm passion, telling me more with his proximity than his vocabulary.

            “I like you, Miss Monet,” he adds.

            And this time, I kiss him back.

*          *          *          *          *

            Does the sun always shine in the morning? As I lie next to him, to Amar, I feel like a morning glory, basking in all things wonderful. Ah, this is what it feels like. Love.

I remember when he told me. It was a month after we started dating. We were sitting in our shared lecture class, my white head leaning on his brown shoulder, when he passed me a note. Laughing, I picked it up, opened it and, just like that, ‘Miss Monet, I have to tell you something: I am in love with you.’ Trying not to show any emotion, I passed him back a note: ‘You really shouldn’t be passing notes in class. But, just for your information…I am in love with you, too.’ We left that lecture early, instead going to the beach for the rest of the day, lying in the sand, lying in each other’s arms.

That was four months ago. As I lie here next to him, in his bed, on this Sunday morning, I can’t help but stare at him. I do this every morning when we wake up. I don’t do it in a creepy way or anything, but I never fail to wonder at his constant mysteriousness. Even after five months, there is still something about him, something I’ve yet to figure out. Maybe it’s his resounding calm, his constant sense of peace and harmony. He is always level-headed, always cool and collected, yet he doesn’t flaunt it or brag about it or declare it on a $25-tee from Urban Outfitters. It is just inherently Amar. Even, right now, when he’s sleeping, he just lies there, limbs still and breath perfectly paced, unlike my sleeping routine – legs flailing, breath squeaking like a prepubescent boy.

Maybe it’s not so much his calm, but the calm he brings to me. Since we’ve started dating, I’ve learned to slow down, to go with the flow, to be a tad bit more rational.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been with a guy who treats me right, who likes me more for my brains than my body, who constantly shows me that he does indeed care. Maybe that’s why.

*          *          *          *          *         

There’s only a month until graduation, which, on this beer-pong campus means only one thing – parties. I’ve never been much for the whole party scene, but, since Amar has yet to experience a crazy-college college party, I feel obliged.

“Now, remember, don’t take cups from anyone you don’t know, and don’t inhale the air too much, oh, and don’t eat the chips out of the bag – too many hands,” I say, feeling somewhat protective of him.

Squeezing my hand in his, he just smiles. “Ok, Miss Monet. Whatever you say, dear.”

*          *          *          *          *

This party is lame. Right as we’re about to make our escape, Weirdo sees Amar, rushing up to us from across the room.

“Hey man,” he begins, stopping when his eyes catch our intertwined hands.

“Hi, Shaunveer. Nice to see you, but we have to leave,” Amar says, pulling me towards the door.

“Wait, man. What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me condescendingly. “What about back home?”

“Um, nothing. Bye Shaunveer,” he replies pulling me out to the sidewalk.

“Babe,” I say, “what is going on?”

“Oh, nothing. I told you not to worry about him, remember, Miss Monet?”

“Yes, I remember. But obviously something’s up.”

He releases my hand, placing his on his forehead.

“Amar, please tell me what is going on. Why is that guy so rude to me? Why won’t you introduce him to me?”

He is still standing there, not looking at me, not even breathing.

“Amar?”

“Miss Monet, I…I…I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“Back home, in India, I…”

“Yes?”

“I have a fiancé.”

 

 

 

           

           

Veering Democratic

            My mind, much like most Republicans, is a swinging pendulum, undulating from right to wrong, yes to no, do to don’t, never failing to fail at making a solid argument. Before I get a chance to veer Democratic, going with the go-with-your-gut-but-don’t-say-I-didn’t-tell-you-so route, the professor starts her introductory diatribe, swiftly but surely pulling the reins in on my plan to meet The Mystery Man…I mean, Amar. Sitting there, next to him, I wonder what it is about this guy that so piques my curiosity. Usually, those with a y-chromosome are to my life what coffee is to five-hours’ sleep – a temporary remedy not ready for the challenge; hence, I’ve stopped bothering to bother at all. So, case in Punjabi point, for the first time in a very long time, why am I suddenly slightly – just slightly – concerned with the opposite sex? Is he my long-awaited mirage in Fantasy-Man-Land? Is he special? Maybe I’m just horny? Or maybe…

            He’s laughing. L-a-u-g-h-i-n-g. Somewhat infuriated, and also somewhat further intrigued – his laugh, albeit frustrating in context, is, shall I say, nice – I madly scribble him a note:

Why are you laughing at me?

            Apparently, he finds this to be even funnier still, his laugh evolving to a deep chortle as he passes my lined paper back to me:

You – what is your name again? – keep twirling

your hair and tilting your head from side to

side.

            Oh no – he’s witnessed my nonverbal communication! He’s seen my internal rambling in its most embarrassing form! Why oh why must my oddities raise their neurotic heads just when I’ve finally managed a normalcy-victory? Anxious to dissuade his misguided perceptions of me, I respond:

Oh, I only do that when I’m bored. Not

because I was thinking about anything

or anything because I totally wasn’t. I

was really just bored. Yeah. And my

name’s Monet.

Well, Miss Monet, what would you

say about walking with me to the

bookstore – I don’t know where it is.

            Why doesn’t he know where the bookstore is? Weird. Still, there is something about Amar. I don’t really know what exactly, but I know it’s something. Something different, something mysterious. Taking a leap – for me, more like a leap, followed by a dive, and capped off by a blind gymnastics course – I reply:

Absolutely, Amar.

            Understanding my response, he turns to look at me, smiling, and nods his head. And all I can think is Amar.

*****

            Walking around this peaches-and-herb campus is an adventure fraught with foreboding. Everyone knows everyone else – correction, everyone recognizes everyone else – thanks in part to the campus’ affinity for alcohol, penchant for pot, and fondness for frolicking, and thus that all-too-familiar look upon passers-by that only means “Were you that person I saw at that party?” For me, the glares come courtesy of only the frolicking – booze equals belly flab and drugs equal psych ward – but frolicking, well, that equals my short-term solace from years of fatherly ‘advice.’

            Therefore, my bookstore-bound stroll with Amar equals awkward.

            “You know a lot of people, don’t you, Miss Monet?” he presumes.

            “Well, you know, I wouldn’t say I know them know them. I might have, you know, seen them once or twice.”

            “But why don’t you talk to them? Don’t you want to say hello?”

            “It really isn’t necessary, trust me. Anyway, why don’t you know where the bookstore is?”

            “This is my first day here, Miss Monet. I am an exchange student. From India.”

            “Wow, that’s really…wow,” I stutter, suddenly simultaneously entranced with his exoticness and mortified by the moths flying around in my stomach.

            “So,” I say, desperate for any distraction from my flushed cheeks, “you came here all the way from India. That takes balls. Not that I’m thinking about your balls or anything like that – God no! – but you know, right? That’s really cool you came here. Why you chose here I really don’t know, though. This was my last choice school. I wanted to go to Berkeley, because they run on semester system, not an evil quarter system, but I didn’t get in, of course. Figures, right? I mean, of course, the only school I get into runs on the freaking quarter system, yet another example of my un-luck in life. That’s still cool you came here, though. I mean, good for you.”

            As we finally approach the bookstore, he says, smiling serenely, “What is it about quarters that you don’t like, Miss Monet?”

            Realizing that, yet again, I’ve sunk myself in a pool too deep, a pool too incomprehensibly crazy for others, I panic, eager for any way to utter a polite but pointed ‘It-was-nice-to-meet-you-but-I’ve-really-got-to-go.’

            Somewhat, somehow sensing my eagerness to escape, he, Amar, turns to face me, puts his brown hand on my white shoulder, and says, “I want to know you, Miss Monet. I really do. What about having dinner, with me, tomorrow night?”

            Swing, swing goes the pendulum again, unsure as to which way the best move lies.

            “Miss Monet,” he asks, “what are you so afraid of?”

            “Quarters,” I say, “I’m afraid of quarters. And dinner would be great.”

            And with that, I give my cell number to him, to Amar.

*          *          *          *          *

            Juan is the only person I’ve ever trusted to advise me. Since I’ve lived in this shack, or, in realtor terms, a “reasonably-priced beachside paradise,” Juan, the building’s custodian, has embraced my talkative nature, never once minding me waxing philosophical on my life’s occurrences as he waxes the floors. I bitch and complain, he calls me “chica loca,” and he talks about his wife, children, and grandchildren. Although nary a personal problem gets solved, Juan always makes me smile.

            Today, in particular, is a day requiring much-needed advice. Today, at approximately seven o’clock p.m., Amar is coming to my apartment, picking me up, and taking me out on a date. Obviously, Juan’s wise words are of great merit.

            “I mean, what am I supposed to do?” I ask, as Juan vacuums the carpet in the laundry room. “I haven’t been on an actual date since, what, about the ninth grade? I don’t date guys. I just, you know…”

            “Si, chica,” Juan replies. “You want to, though, no?”

            “Yeah, I do. That’s the weird thing, Juan. I haven’t been on a date for so long because I haven’t wanted to. All I’ve wanted to do is, you know…”

            “Si, chica.”

            “But, now, it’s like I want to, but I don’t. There’s something about him that makes me nervous.”

            “Porque, chica? Is he bad?”

            “No, no, no. It’s not that. He seems like a really good guy. That’s why he makes me nervous – I don’t know how to be with a good guy.”

            “Don’t be stupid, chica. Just go,” he advises, smiling and putting my mind at ease.

            And with that, I go back upstairs. I’ve got some primping to do.

*          *          *          *          *

            “I made food, for us. Have you ever had Indian food?” asks Amar, clutching a bag brimming with the succulent entity that must be Indian food.

            “No, I haven’t actually,” I reply, kind of unsure as to what I should say next. “But it sounds great,” I add, hoping that doing so negates my awkward silences.

            “I like your earrings,” he says, noticing the sparkling chandeliers that dangle underneath my hair.

            Feeling alarmingly unlike myself – why I can’t think of a gazillion things to ramble on about right now is really beyond me – I aim to do anything, something so as not to keep feeling so much like a chicken with its head cut off.

            “So, what can you tell me about life in India? I mean, what is it like there?” I ask.

            “India is just India. It’s not really important. I want to know more about you, Miss Monet.”

            Just as I’m about to assemble some semblance of an autobiography – polished and edited, of course – he asks: “Where is your bike, Miss Monet?”

            “Bike? I don’t have a bike,” I reply.

            “Oh, you don’t have a bike. Well, I thought we could ride our bikes to the beach for our dinner,” he explained. “It is not a big deal, though. You can just side on the handlebars, right? You’re small, Miss Monet,” he suggests, his perma-grin somewhat – but not entirely – contagious.

            “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know about that. I mean, riding on the handlebars, that’s a little dangerous, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know. Maybe we should just do this another time or something…”

            “Miss Monet, I know you are afraid of quarters, but you needn’t be afraid of me. It’s just riding a bike to have dinner. You might like it,” he suggests, his smile working its wonders totally and completely this time.

            “Just don’t brake without letting me know,” I say, releasing, for the first time in a long time, what might just possibly be a smile.

*          *          *          *          *

            I am riding on the handlebars of Amar’s bike back to my apartment. After an embarrassing bout of chutney-on-the-chin – which, by the way, was sigh-provokingly cured by him dusting it off with his thumb – our dinner – he never referred to it as a ‘date’ – went better than expected, but, of course, I never have good expectations for anything, ever.

It’s windy as we ride, but I don’t really care. I can sense him sitting behind me, breathing in and breathing out. We don’t talk on the way back, and we didn’t really talk all that much during our dinner, but, again, there was something about being around him that made the silence feel okay.

But, as he walks me to my door, the moths start doing their moth thing again, and my verbal leakage breaks the silence.

“Listen, Amar, I just wanted to thank you for tonight.  I mean, I had a really good time and everything tonight, with you, well, it was really great and nice and, I mean, you’re really nice, and, well, yeah.”

“Miss Monet,” he says, that uncanny laugh appearing yet again, “you are as your name suggests – a work of art.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“How can art be anything but good?”

“Amar, now, you know, I never do this or say this or whatever, but, well, I don’t know, I…I…I…I like you.”

“I like you as well, Miss Monet.”

Feeling like a gold medalist, I lean in, eagerly and anxiously awaiting a smoldering kiss.

“Good night, Miss Monet. It was a pleasure.”

And there I stand, knowing all too well that medalists aren’t winners until the ribbon’s around the neck.

           

           

           

           

Enjoying the Catastrophe

I hate quarters. They are to the dimes, nickels, and pennies of the world what Bush-loving jocks are to the trumpet-playing Calc nerds – god-awful. Perhaps it’s because I grew up riding the subway from Central Park to Saks like that damn proverbial kid in the candy store – except I was a sixteen-year-old girl who thought idolizing couture would erase my insecurities…it didn’t, obviously. But having to shove those [damn] quarters into slots day in and day out, just for the privilege of sitting in an “eau-de-barf” subway next to Joe-Hobo, really made me start to resent those things.

Luckily, I don’t have to ride the subway anymore, although I kind of miss it and miss going to the Park - the ducks there are to die for – and I miss the pizza in NYC, although I shouldn’t be eating pizza anyway because of my ever-expanding muffin top and… Obviously I failed to inherit my mother’s certain je-ne-sais-quoi, or as she calls it, her “trait magnifique.” What a load of bull, right? I did, however, inherit her penchant for French names, or rather, said penchant was unwillingly forced upon me when I left that creepy enigma otherwise known as the womb. She named me Monet. Yeah, like the painting. Unfortunately, my French mother apparently had a certain something for Jewish men, so my last name is Fritz. Monet Fritz. I am a walking (stumbling), talking (stuttering, and mostly to myself), living (learning) conundrum. Classy but confused. Beautiful but messy. Composed but collapsing. Nearing college graduation but wondering if my illusion will ever morph into something real.

* * * * *

As I’m walking to the downstairs billing office for about the gazilionth time – why they don’t accept appointments is really beyond me – I can’t help but notice a shiny something-or-other on the ground ahead of me. Curious, I quicken my pace, wincing with every click-clack of my blister-inducing ballet flats. Disappointed, I discover said shiny something-or-other is yet another unappreciated penny, unabashedly left for dead by its careless owner. Dutifully, I gather up the penny in my hands, place it in my [super cute] lime-green leather coin purse –too expensive though, so I probably shouldn’t have bought it in the first place … – and, feeling slightly vengeful, remove a quarter. I glare at it. Past the point of no return – at least in terms of hating quarters – I throw it on the ground in front of me, hoping that doing so will both literally and figuratively bring it back down to earth.

Happy about my latest contribution to coin philanthropy, I strut on towards the office, my smile as big as Barack’s. Just as I’m about to descend the stairs, I get that scary/funny/oh-shit-please-no feeling that I’ve come to recognize so well – I’m going to trip. Only this time, I don’t just trip, I tumble. Down the stairs I go, rocking and a-rolling like that kid in gymnastics who never quite got the hang of the proper somersaulting technique. It’s funny – after the infinite tumbles, trips, and klutzy what-have-you my twenty-two years have bestowed upon me, I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do during. Should I clench my muscles and hold on tight or should I go limbs-akimbo, enjoying the catastrophe? Am I supposed to be silent and stupefied or loud and loving it? Usually, I vary my reaction.

I never, however, vary my after-accident attempt at some semblance of composure. At the bottom of the stairs, I whip right up, dusting off my jeans, smoothing down my blondish, brownish, and somewhere-in-between-ish hair, and say, “Shoes will one day be the death of me. That or cute guys.” Luckily, cute guys never see me stumble, except for this time.

“You’ve got a really peculiar scratch on your forehead, there,” he says, his thick voice matching his molasses skin.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I maintain, desperate to escape mortification-sans-mirror.

“No, really, it looks pretty bad. Would you like me to take you to the doctor or something?” mystery man asks, his sincerity matching his sexiness point for point.

“No, I’ll just go,” I say, grabbing my things. “I’m used to this – shoes, right! Can’t live with ‘em can’t live without ‘em!”

“Actually you slipped on this quarter,” he quips. “The quarter you threw just a few seconds ago.”

“I’ve got to go,” I mutter, fleeing from his sight but not from my eardrums.

“My name is Amar, by the way; nice to meet you too.”

* * * * *

My final semester starts tomorrow, and I still have yet to figure out how I feel about that. I mean, college graduation is supposed to induce feelings of elation, of relief, of excitement. It is supposed to convey a sense of success, as well as promise ever-escalating success throughout one’s life. In sixteen weeks, my previous four years here in this coastal college town will come to a fruition, and yet, those giggly/cocky/gee-ain’t-I-special feelings have not materialized. I should be happy about this, I really should. I am going to graduate with the maximum number of credits, those fire-hydrant-yellow Honors cords, and receive the same obligatory orchids from my parents that I’ve received every time something seemingly important happens to me. When I graduate, I am supposed to be better attuned to the world around me, more educated as to life’s rights and wrongs, and, as a Communications major, I am supposed to be better in step with exactly how to relate to others. Except I’m not, I’m not any of those things.

Sitting on the ground, legs dangling in the swimming pool as my landlord seemingly-subtly spies on me – he suspects my rambling nature is merely a symptom of a meth addiction – I look down into the water, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the chlorine will reveal what lies beneath my ordinary exterior (and chicken-scratch-scarred forehead – kudos to the quarters!). I wonder what it would be like, what kind of life I would live, what kind of person I would be if certain variables hadn’t fallen into place. Would I be so fraught with insecurities if my dad hadn’t remarked, during that horrendous time otherwise known as puberty, might I add, that my “looks were akin to my smarts?” (I’ve yet to discern the compliment from the insult with that whopper.) Would I have a serious boyfriend if I didn’t feel the need to validate myself by sleeping with the Freddy Frat houses every time that comment comes to mind? Would I have some girlfriends if they didn’t all disrespect me? Would I, would I, would I?

* * * * *

Why is it that alarm clocks never work when you need them to? Of course, the one morning this semester that I need to be on time, my alarm clock fails to deliver more than any of those guys in the Viagra commercials. Forgive me for sounding rather third-grader-ish, but deciding what to wear on the first day of school is something that I always look forward to; so, needless to say, being stressed for time and not being able to partake in such fashion festivities really grinds my gears.

Not nearly as annoying, however, as having to find your classes without looking like a complete and total freshman, map in hand. I race to my first lecture hall, only to discover that my token back-row, left-side aisle seat is taken, along with every other seat, apparently. Heels up, I peer over the room and can see only one visible seat – in the front row, of course.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask the guy sitting next to it.

“No,” he replies, laughing for whatever reason.

“Hello again,” he adds. “Nice scar.”

Turning my head, I realize my neighbor isn’t just some random Chatty Charlie.

“My name’s Amar,” he says. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

Would I?

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