Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (12 page)
Ely and I
used
to have a No Kiss List
TM
.
Gabriel is a free agent now. I not only could kiss him, I could go much, much farther with him. I could make real Ely’s fantasies about Gabriel, in ways that Ely never stood a chance.
As far as I recall, Ely and I never created a No Fuck List?
(Should we have?)
All bets are off now, right?
Mom says men can’t be trusted.
I can’t.
I should.
Gabriel has big ears.
I don’t.
I remain alone on my
. I have nothing to
.
But so much to brood over on my deserted-island bench. Now that Ely has eradicated himself as my best friend, my soulmate, the truth is I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my time. School is a waste. Maybe I’ll find religion. I’ll probably become a X. They have the best food.
Gabriel must hear my rumbling stomach over on his island. He makes the first move, signaling my island with a text message to my cell phone.
Can I buy u breakfast?
Sometimes giant pieces of ice, like almost the size of cities, detach from glaciers. They float iceberg majesty—or terror, if you’re on the
Titanic.
I’m sure to go down for this, but I do it anyway. I text back:
Aren’t u supposed 2 ask me that the night b4, not the morning of?
The man under the baseball hat doesn’t look up. But I see his fingers tap away.
A gentleman shows more respect 2 a lady.
I’m bored. This is pointless. I have nothing left.
If I wasn’t a lady, I might be the Bruce laughing and kissing in bed with Ely this morning.
I don’t answer.
Yet the gorgeous big-eared man under the Mets hat will not back down.
C’mon. Eggs. Bacon. Home fries. My treat.
I really am kind of hungry. I give:
I like cereal.
I leave out the “with Ely” part. My fingers hurt too much to key those additional letters.
The archangel wants to know:
What kind?
I lie:
Product 19.
Truthfully, I like Rice Krispies, with Ely across the breakfast table (at his apartment), eating Lucky Charms. We play food-fight war: Snap! Crackle! Pop! vs. pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers. Chaos prevails. Ginny throws a fit over the mess. Susan laughs and tosses Grape-Nuts like confetti.
Gabriel tosses back:
I’m a Müeslix man myself.
I’ll bet Gabriel knows who Fred Astaire’s favorite dance partner was, too.
Seriously?
I have to ask.
I see the shape of his fine, fine form laughing from yonder island.
No. Just making sure ur paying attention. I’m all about the Cheerios.
Cheerios are Ely’s backup favorite morning cereal, after we’ve eaten up the Lucky Charms (dry) in the afternoons.
My body aches, my soul grieves. The smile that wants to taunt my lips: DENIED DENIED DENIED. I am not going to be the girl with the heart of stone waiting to be broken down by the quirky-cool guy with the heart of gold. Fuck that fantasy formula.
Persnickety.
That’s what Ely would text me now, his favorite word to tease and taunt away my dark moods.
Quit it. B Angel Naomi, I no u can.
I want to be touched by an angel.
His name was Ely, not Gabriel.
My heart is
I’d rather have breakfast with Mom.
I text a final message to Gabriel:
I feel sick. Going home.
Ely never wakes up before eight. If I get home soon, we can avoid face time entirely. We’re already not speaking—no worries there.
Still. A custody arrangement needs to be worked out. Who gets to use the elevator, the laundry room, the lobby—when. Separate but equal. Dead to one another.
There will be no
this time.
I know things are really getting twisted when I think to myself that it would be better if she were dead. Like, then I could have all these good memories and be really sad and everyone would understand and eventually I’d move on, cherishing her always. I wouldn’t have to do anything about it, because it would be irrevocable. There’s something appealing about that.
But of course I don’t really want her dead. I’m glad she’s alive. It’s all the good memories that are dead.
Dumped
doesn’t even begin to describe it. If you’re going to use a trash metaphor,
incinerated
is more like it.
I don’t know if she wants me dead, but she’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want me to exist.
Thou shalt not use the laundry room on Saturdays.
Thou shalt look through your peephole and make sure I am not in the foyer when you’re going to the elevator.
Thou shalt go and check your mail if you see me waiting for the elevator in the lobby.
Thou shalt go straight to the elevator if you see me checking my mail.
Thou shalt avoid the following Starbucks: Astor Place (the one on the triangle, not the one close to St. Marks), Broadway between Bowery and Houston, University between Eighth and Ninth.
And so on. Only she didn’t phrase them like this. Instead it was:
Don’t use the laundry room on Saturdays.
Look through your peephole and make sure I’m not in the foyer when you’re going to the elevator. I’ll do the same.
Check your mail if you see me waiting for the elevator in the lobby; go straight to the elevator if you see me checking my mail. I’ll do the same.
Here are the Starbucks I’d like to go to; please go to other ones.
She had Bruce the First deliver the commandments to me, and even he looked a little embarrassed. I didn’t show them to Bruce the Second, because I knew they would only make him feel guilty and sad. He feels guilty and sad enough already.
I’m stuck on incomprehension. I don’t understand why she’s doing this. I don’t understand how something that’s held strong for so long could crumble so fast. I mean, not over a boy.
I called. I did. The next morning. That afternoon. Then the day after that.
I thought we needed to cool down, and then we’d be back to being us again.
Instead: incinerated.
I wasn’t going to lie and say I was sorry; there wasn’t any reason for me to say I was sorry, except for the Bruce the Second thing, but I was pretty sure this wasn’t about the Bruce the Second thing. And the joke was—it’s not like Bruce and I were suddenly condom companions. No, that first night, all the clothes stayed on. And when we went to sleep— I don’t know how to describe it. It felt like someone had left a night-light on. It had that small glow.
Now it’s been a week—and, to be honest, if I were to treat it like an anniversary, I’d say it’s the weekiversary of Naomi & Ely’s incineration, not Bruce & Ely’s relationship. I’ve never been one to take it slow—I mean, why wait?—but I think because Naomi and I are crashing so fast, Bruce and I are taking it slow. Like, nursing-home slow. Doing the things that end withalking instead of the ones that end withucking.
I’m being careful with him, even if I don’t know why. I guess I just sense that I should.
He hasn’t asked me back to his dorm, and I’m not sure whether that’s because he doesn’t want people to know he’s with a guy or if he just doesn’t want them to know he’s with me. I don’t really mind. My bed’s more comfortable than anything NYU provides anyway—I’ve had a good sampling. Naomi was always more into dorm beds than I was.
We go for dinner at Chat ’n Chew and a movie at Union Square. Then it’s almost midnight and he has a morning class, so we decide to call it a night. In front of his dorm, there’s that sweet moment when he so clearly wants me to kiss him goodbye and he’s clearly still too nervous to kiss me good-bye, so I lean into him and we kiss right there. It’s brief, because Bruce is still so shy, and it’s not like kissing in public with other guys, where it’s all about showing off or showing each other. With Bruce, it’s about the kiss itself. I don’t know how he does that. I mean, I don’t know how he does that
to me.
I’ll admit that I still don’t get it. As I’m walking home, I’m as much amused as I am aroused. Then I get into our lobby and all the blissful feelings are drained away, leaving me with my hurt and resentment and anger. Even if Naomi wasn’t there, I’d feel these things, just from the way she’s turned my home against me, the way she’s haunted it with all her damage. But because Naomi
is
there, I’m almost paralyzed with the hurt and resentment and anger I feel.
She’s checking her mail. I know what the rule is. I know I am to head directly to the elevator.
But I never agreed to the rule. I was never even asked.
I nod to Gabriel as I pass him, but he’s too caught up in a book to notice. Then I take out my mail key and head into the small mailroom.
I’ve only taken a step inside when she asks, “What are you doing?” She doesn’t even turn around to say it. Just looks at her mailbox. Glares.
“I’m checking my mail,” I say lightly.
She slams her mailbox shut. Locks it. Faces me. Says, “Fuck you.”
“Sorry,” I say, pointing to an imaginary ring on my wedding finger. “Already taken.”
I know it’s a bitchy response, but where I come from, “Fuck you” does not require a polite response.