Pug Hill - Alison Pace [73]
“Well, good,” says Amy a little embarrassed, and I’m glad I didn’t advertise my man-centered interpretation, an interpretation I imagine only Pamela could be proud of. “Because I don’t want to get up and talk at all, and I certainly don’t want to talk about the men I’ve dated.”
“Yeah, I mean I think it’s supposed to be about something we’ve lost, so that’s individual, and I think coming up with your own individual thing is part of the getting out of the moment,” adds Alec in a rare moment of insight. It’s been a while now actually since he’s last said, “dude.” Maybe the “dudes” just come out when he’s nervous or something, in which case I’d feel safe saying that The New Yorker trumps “dude.”
Amy bangs her glass around on the table. “I mean I don’t even date.”
“Dude, you don’t date? But you’re hot.”
“I just think it’s always the same old story,” she says, exhaling heavily, and I know exactly what she means. I wonder if perhaps Amy is my long-lost comrade in not necessarily wanting to run away from being single; if maybe she and I will forge a great single-girl friendship because our dating experiences are exactly the same.
“I agree,” I say wholeheartedly, and envision Amy and I, our bourbons in hand (I’ll switch over to bourbon) fighting the Pamelas of the world, because when it comes to dating our experiences are like one; when it comes to dating, we see eye to eye.
“Right, right,” she says, her eyes brightening just the slightest bit. “You go out on a date, you drink yourself into a complete stupor, you throw up in the bathroom of whatever restaurant or bar you are in, which of course leads to looking in the bathroom mirror at your mascara-stained reflection, asking the inevitable questions, What am I really doing here? What is it all for? over and over again. And then, the next day you’re so hung over and depressed that all you can do is lie in bed and cry and listen to Coldplay and eat pickles. I mean,” and she stops to snort, “it’s the same thing every time.”
Or perhaps, I think as I rearrange every thought in my mind, Amy and I don’t quite see eye to eye on dating. For a while, no one says anything. For a while, we all just stare at the drinks in our hands.
Lindsay says across the table to Lawrence, “You did really well, tonight.” Lindsay, I realize, is a really nice person. It’s surprising in only the best way, something like that, when someone who seemed so dreadful years ago, as her e-mail was forwarded around the world, is actually nothing like that at all.
“Thank you!” Lawrence says grandly, beaming.
“Uh, what’s your secret?” she asks. He leans forward, puts his elbow up on the table and let’s his hand flop there loosely at the end of his wrist. He stage-whispers conspiratorially. “Once I’m up there,” he pauses dramatically, purses his lips, and nods, “I just pretend I’m someone else.”
Lindsay nods silently. I do, too.
“Have you ever just wanted to be someone else?” he asks her.
“Uh-huh, sure,” Lindsay answers.
My whole life, I think, and take a bigger than perhaps necessary sip of my beer.
chapter twenty-two
To All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before
Sunday morning, rain is falling.
Those are the first words of this Maroon 5 song that’s been playing constantly on the radio these days. The alarm just went off and I’m lying in bed, wondering if it’s just me, or does everyone feel lately that no matter where they are, Maroon 5 seems to be there, too, playing mysteriously out of some hidden speaker. I listen to the lyrics, they’re about this guy who hopes some road somewhere will lead him back to the girl he’s singing to. I think for a moment how I’m not sure there is anyone in my past who I hope I’ll be lead back to. But I guess, if you think about all the someones who actually make up my past, that’s not