This Fish Needs A Bicycle

oh yes i can

J called me this morning. I was walking to work and answered the phone with a “what’s up?” that was as brisk as my pace.

“Why do I always feel like I’m bothering you when I call?”
“Aw, I’m sorry. Maybe that’s just what New York does to you -- always in a rush. But no, you’re never a bother.”
“That’s right girl. And don’t you forget it!”

I had to laugh. For a guy whose need for acceptance is greater than his need for say, sleep or oxygen, he puts on a good show. It was always the Great Paradox with him. Cocky Bastard layer on the outside, you-like-my-new-shoes-right? layer on the inside. He’s a self-admitted affirmation junkie.

This morning, he was calling to firm up plans for next weekend. J and his girlfriend are taking my apartment for the first few days of my trip. A cheap vacation for them, a Sir Hal sitter for me. God, I’m brilliant. On top of that, J offered to drive in early to take me and my lovely travel companion to the airport. Even in the midst of all the drama, he was always that generous. I had a bad day at work? He’d make (did you hear me? MAKE) apple pie and drop it by my house. With ice cream. Do gooder!

Speaking of ice cream, I left a pint of vanilla bean over at Ari’s house last night. Too full of pizza and pirouettes and too busy picking on her brother, we didn’t exactly get around to it before I had to call it a night. Guess that means I’ll have to go back for a rematch. How’s 7:30?

The bed of dreams is everything she claimed, by the way, and makes me want to invest in some new, grown-up bedroom furniture. I sunk a couple grand into the living room last year and haven’t felt the nesting instinct quite as strongly since. But seeing that bed… Sigh.

I’m using this weekend to catch up with some friends, and catch up on some writing. I have sixty pages of the novel to turn in on November 15. Take away eight days in Morocco and you have… well, kiddies, just no time at all. I wrote the ending, though, which is a fan-fucking-tastic feeling. Filling in all the guts is painstaking and, well considering the topic and close-to-me nature of the characters, it’s fairly depressing. Thank god it all worked out in real life, or I’d have had to invent a happy ending to save my own sanity.

(Joyce? Stina? You kids rock my face off.)

Oh, and the anger has passed. Like it always does. And I do apologize for being so enigmatic. Yesterday, my desk phone rang,

“I have time, you know. To listen to why you’re angry.”
“Ha! I can’t talk about it here.”

(Two new execs now share what was my office and I, am out in non-privacy land where conversations about the esoteric nature of my rage are somewhat inappropriate.)

“You can’t do that!”
“Oh, yes I can.”
“First that Red Sox bullshit and now this? If all of your readers had your work number, they’d be calling you too.”

I laughed. Snorted, actually. Benjamin spent the better part of the next ten minutes egging me on. The more I laughed, the more heads turned. Man, I miss my office.

Posted by This Fish at October 22, 2004 10:24 AM