A Greenpoint Tale
“You’re a Cancer,” she said it with so much unwavering cheer that he paused over dinner for a moment, trying to remember the astrological crib sheet he’d memorized when wooing her. It had become difficult to hear her as the L train passed directly overhead, rocking the rustic corrugated steel walls of the gastropub. Another sip of beer steeled him for the coming onslaught about crystals and sage.
“Hmm, I always thought I was a Libra. You think I’m a Cancer?” He smiled and leaned across the table, grasping her tiny little hands.
“Yes,” she said with an uncharacteristic amount of determination. Her hands snapped out of his, the ironic fuschia bow of her upper lip quivering, “You’re a cancer on my life.”
He laughed, “You know, you are so clever with those puns sometimes. Where do you get these things from?” His laughter was cut short when she got up and started to put on her jacket; the woven one with cats frolicking in a basket of yarn. A thrift store find they’d found when they went slumming in Bushwick. It reminded him of his Nona’s house. Rest her soul. “What’s going on? What do you mean on my life?”
She slung her kitten bag over her shoulder and picked up the bicycle tire she’d stashed under the table. “The Angel Cards told me we’re done, Jeff.” She huffed and looked at him with sad orphan eyes, and at that very moment, her noticed that her DIY bangs were very crooked, indeed.
“I’m going to write a great slam poem about you one day. This will be my brand new start.My new-new one,” she corrected dreamily before sweeping out of the bar.
“What about the locally sourced Balsamic-reduction vegan meatloaf we ordered?” He called to the empty door. “Took me three months to get a reservation to this place.”
Jeff looked down at his Heirloom pear quiche and wondered if there was a chapter for “Minnesota-Williamsburg-Painter-Transplants” in his Bro Bible. He wondered what he would tell the guys over Whey shakes at the gym when they asked him if he’d finally smashed Art School Chick. All the cramped record stores he’d stooped in over the last couple of months, as she hunted in moldy crates for more Smiths vinyls. All the allergy attacks from the dust. He was breaking the bank on Claritin, here.
And now she was leaving him because a stack of trading cards was telling her so, leaving him in this dingy place with dangling, exposed light bulbs and bartenders that looked like something straight out of a county fair.
The only thing to do now was eat her pre-fix platter when it came out and finally eat for one in New York. He’d drown his discomfort in salty pears and beer. Maybe it was time for him to stop chasing waterfalls. Stop trying so hard, find a girl a little more like his mother. Maybe she’d learn how to cook so he didn’t have to. He reached over to grab the waitress. “Hey Miss, you guys carry Lime-a-ritas?”
