About Angels
‘I’m an angel,’ you state, and it’s true. You are indeed an angel. I can’t think of a more accurate description for ER nurses. ‘I never address myself though,’ you add, ‘I suffer too much for other people.’ Turning the sort of care we give to others inward has been something of a theme of mine these past many months.
You should always put on your mask before helping others.
‘Take a salsa class. Find a hot Latin lover,’ Ryan tells me, my tongue threatening to bleed from biting as I hold back a witty retort that is probably inappropriate. Probably.
Thursday morning it hits me that this weekend is my last weekend in Miami. I know I’ll go to the beach this weekend, and I reference my to-do list to make sure I get to whatever else I want to make sure not to miss: The Kampong, Wynwood, salsa. I spend a few minutes researching Wynwood tours and cross-referencing availability before booking a graffiti golf cart tour with Wynwood Art Walk. Sunday seems to be the better beach day, so Saturday I’ll salsa.
I had found Salsa Mia last time I was at the beach, when I was figuring out where to go for a cocktail after. I knew I’d schedule a salsa class there. It just felt right.
The instructors are friendly, lively. We all have place cards with our names on them. I’m in the front row, next to couple who also happen to be from New Hampshire. ‘I knew you weren’t from around here,’ the man tells me, ‘You look too white and Irish.’ He’s not wrong, but I’m still mildly offended.
We compare travel notes, talk about the city.
‘America is a melting pot,’ he states, ‘And Miami is the melting pot of America.’ I can get behind this, but maybe if it’s amended to ‘Miami is the melting pot of The Americas.’ Regardless, he likes that here, you don’t have to go to bed by 1AM.
I reminisce about my home for a bit: Boston, New Hampshire. I appreciate that it feels like perpetual summer here, that I have enjoyed winter and the snow back home vicariously via pictures from friends and family. I don’t mind having to go to bed by 1AM, however. The winter and the concomitant darkness makes me appreciate my favourite moments back home all the more, especially those long summer night bike rides down the Esplanade. I don’t regret coming down here, and I’m validating my hypothesis that I needed the sun this time of year, and that a month was the right amount of time. But still, it’s starting to be time to go home. Not tonight, though.
Class starts, the instructors calling out to grab the class’s attention and stop our chatter. Because I exude ‘Pick me!’ energy, I end up demonstrating something with the instructor.
‘Meg, you will be my partner,’ she says, swaying me around. I follow, laughing at myself. She invites everyone else up onto the dance floor. We stand in a circle, and I’m wondering how this is going to go. ‘Pick a partner,’ she tells us all, and I look around. Everyone else is partnered up. ‘Does anyone need a partner?’ she asks, and I raise my hand, the only one. Did I really come to a salsa class in Miami and end up the only one without a partner?
But then you step forward from across the room. I try to introduce myself, but the music is loud. ‘Sean?’ I ask, leaning in. ‘John,’ you almost have to yell, in my ear. I’m still not entirely sure I’ve heard you correctly, so for a whole day you stay unnamed in my phone.
At the next break in the music, we start to make conversation. ‘I have a ton of social anxiety,’ you explain, one of the first things you tell me besides your name. I look at you skeptically.
‘You’re alone in Miami at a salsa class,’ I start, almost as a question. ‘I’m proud of you.’
I place my hands between your index and middle fingers, all four of my fingers resting on your middle ones respectively, as we’re instructed to do. We start with bachata. (When I tell Ryan about this, he asks, ‘Which one?’ and I respond, ‘There are different ones?’ like the white woman I am. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and starts listing them, before I simply say, ‘The easy one…’ and he drops the subject.)
We’re all right, I think, for two white people. Maybe you disagree. I explain that I’m not bad at dancing, but I am bad at following. I love the twirls, and when I tell this to Alan later that week, he says, ‘Of course you do. The follow leads the twirls.’
At one point you say, ‘Why don’t you lead?’ and this is a great idea. We switch sides. You are not as adept at the twirls as I am.
During the break, I join you at your table over our mojitos. A photographer comes around, and we pose for a picture. He checks the image, then looks back up, pointing to his cheek to tell me I should give you a kiss. Sure, why not. When they come around later trying to sell pictures like this is some kind of amusement park ride, I consider buying them. We look really fucking cute.
Class ends and open dance starts, but I’m not in the mood to salsa. ‘I know this area,’ I tell you, ‘Do you want to walk along the beach and grab a drink somewhere?’
You consent, content to follow along as I lead. We get across the street before I realise I don’t have my camera, but luckily find it right under my seat where I’d left it when I pop back into the club to search for it. I pack it into my purse so I don’t have to spend the rest of the night worrying about losing it. I am pleasantly surprised to find I don’t spend any of the rest of the night worrying at all.
Do we end up at that hotel bar with all those tropical plants and water features first? We must have. I know I asked you this the next day and you reminded me. I seem to recall staying for two rounds at each place we went, but am not so sure. My open browser and closed credit card tabs tell the story of the drink menus of the places we went. I try to piece together our journey over these receipts and my Lyft ride history, but the parts where you paid are missing, gaps in my memory. This is our evening to the best of my recollection, or at least the best story I can tell of it.
I want to take you to Pretty Swell, my favourite cocktail bar in the area. We walk along the beach walk to get there—walking, talking, exchanging. We are comfortable around each other. I feel like I have nothing to lose. I’m enjoying your company, and the opportunity to go out for drinks instead of heading home alone.
It’s still somewhat early for Miami, and being a bit off the beaten path itself, Pretty Swell’s patio is fairly empty. We’re able to get an excellent spot along the side, on a couch. We recline under the lush canopy and I get excited about what to order. I ask you what liquors you like. You let me order for you, so I can optimise for all the things I think we ought to try, and figure out what you like.
We sit comfortably entwined at Pretty Swell. You are explaining to me that the Polish have very fat fingers. A flash of Polish fingers crosses my mind. I do not want to think about Polish fingers right now. I subtly change the subject.
‘You have great veins,’ you tell me. I laugh, having been told this by phlebotomists before. You turn my palm up and indicate up my wrist and forearm where you could so easily insert IVs. Said another way this might weird someone out, but I find it kind of hot. It’s an indication of your competence, of your areas of expertise.
‘Why do you keep taking out your phone?’ you ask. It’s a good question. It’s a bit rude of me, even though I don’t stay on it long. I’m not ignoring you, but it’s not clear to you what exactly I am doing when I keep taking out my phone.
‘I write about my life,’ I explain, ‘Blog about it. Try to capture the interesting stories, the small adventures. I’m writing down things I don’t want to forget.’
When we argue about paying, we do so simply. It goes like this: I insist, and the times that you refuse, I let you pay. It’s not very Irish of me not to insist three times, but it’s more efficient this way.
You must have paid for the car to Broken Shaker, because it’s not in my ride history, and it was definitely too far to walk at that hour. I remember stepping out of a car that evening, onto the sidewalk, and you turning around with a brief, ‘Hey,’ before leaning in to kiss me. I am somewhat surprised to find I don’t hate it. When Andrew asked for a kiss the other night, I didn’t want to. I walked home hating it. But this time, I’m not even annoyed you didn’t ask. I could have turned away. I didn’t.
I like the atmosphere here, and wish we could go in the pool. That would be a bad idea, though. Another time. I order us a What’s Up, Doc? and an Uncle Jojo’s Negroni, but I can’t remember who has what. I probably had the spicy one, and wanted you to try a negroni, since you like gin. I’m sure I spout off random cocktail facts in between us continuing to piece together the stories of each other’s lives and personalities. You don’t seem annoyed.
By the end of our rounds at Broken Shaker, it’s time to go home. I am up past my bedtime, as a Bostonian content to have to go to bed by 1AM, and just the right amount of intoxicated to know that it is time to go home and go to bed—not so drunk to insist that it’s actually a good idea to stay out longer. I tell you I’m going to go, and you wait with me to see my into my Lyft. You don’t ask to join, or invite me back to your place, and I don’t offer.
My Lyft driver teases me the entire car ride home. ‘So you come to Miami and you find your Casanova?’ I laugh and insist, ‘He’s not my Casanova!’ He raises his eyebrow skeptically at me in the rear-view mirror. I suppose I did make him wait while we made out. ‘He’s not.’
The next morning I wake up, text you back, start my morning routine, and decide to go back to bed. It’s a beach day, but I don’t want to be there until the early afternoon.
Your text wakes me up. Nothing like a wyd at 10:25 in the morning.
Sleeping in and then beach day.
You ask what beach I’m going to, and invite me to your hotel to use the beach there. This is actually a great idea. A fancy hotel resort beach experience will be better than taking my towel—alone—to South Beach. You send pictures once you’re outside to show me what I’m missing, but I don’t need to be convinced, having already made my decision. That piña colada does look pretty sweet though.
I do debate napping again, but should really get out of bed. All right all right I’ll stop being a bum and get going, I text you, and I do.
I realise just how fancy as fuck The Fontainebleau thinks it is when I have to select a drop-off location within it. There are multiple buildings, a Michelin-started concept restaurant in there somewhere, amongst others.
You greet me in the cavernous hotel lobby. I remark at the luxury of the place.
‘Yeah bro,’ you agree. It feels right, being called bro by a kid from New Jersey.
‘Let’s figure out this beach situation,’ I say, following you through the hallways of the hotel and restaurants, back towards the beach. ‘And I want one of those piña coladas.’
At the bar, I ask if you’ll join me and have another one, and you figure why not. I go to pay, but this is one of the times you disagree. You offer me a $50. ‘No, I was the one who wanted this round,’ but you won’t hear any of it.
‘Actually that might not be enough,’ you realise, handing me a $20 as well.
‘What!?’ but I should know better than to argue. You’ve already had one here; I haven’t.
The bartender floats a shot of rum over the top and garnishes our drinks with perfect pineapple slices.
The drinks come out to $60-something, tax and tip included. This cracks me up. ‘What the fuck!?’ I laugh, handing over your money. ‘What the fuck is this life?’ I leave some extra tip and hand you the rest of the change. You leave some more.
Always tip your bartender.
And your cabana boy.
We walk out to the beach, balancing our fancy as fuck drinks and other accoutrements.
‘When you write about me,’ you start, knowing I will, ‘I want you to write whatever you want. Be honest.’
‘O, I will,’ I laugh, despite myself. You should already know me well enough by this point to know that I would never do something I didn’t want to do. What you don’t seem to know, though, is that this was always going to be a flattering post.
You ask if I quote dialogue directly, if it’s word-for-word, and I answer honestly that I do so to the best of my ability, but it’s ultimately impossible. ‘As well as I can remember. Sometimes I write down exact wording, but otherwise I do my best to capture the spirit of the conversation.’ When there are quotes that seem particularly poignant, I will write them down so as not to forget. Otherwise, poetic license. I’m taking some here.
We continue our walk out onto the beach, and Tré helps us get situated. He complements your shirt in a way that feels genuine and not obsequious. It’s a great shirt: Cream, a sort of mesh open knit, all of its many holes making it see-through to your bare skin beneath. It goes well with your baby blue patterned trunks, your cream Yeezys I called fake Yeezys yesterday. (Sorry about that.) With your sunglasses and easy stride you do look the part, very Miami—New Jersey vacationing in Miami, but pulling it off. I hate my beach outfit, but accept that. I am dressing for drinks and dinner after the beach, and that’s the outfit that matters. Accepting that helped me get out of the house faster, the real goal this morning.
‘You fit right in here!’ Tré insists, and it’s true.
You join me when I want to go in the water, even though the beach isn’t really your thing. I appreciate you holding my sunglasses so I can go under. The water is warmer than it was the other week, and just as salty. I can feel it sticking in my hair as I wring it out.
We sit back in our beach chairs.
‘I’m more of a pool guy,’ you explain, when I tell you I will take the beach over anything. A bad day at the beach still beats a good day anywhere else. I’ll even take snowy sand on Plum Island in the middle of January. This January Beach is better, though, I am forced to admit.
‘I never know whether there’s going to be a big fish. Or a stupid shark!’
This makes me laugh enough that I take out my phone to write it down. Stupid shark!
You leave to use the restroom and return with some sort of alcoholic seltzer situation, tossing your shirt down on your chair.
‘I’m really self-conscious about my body,’ you remind me. ‘Walking over here without a shirt on was a really big deal for me.’
‘Proud of you,’ I tell you truthfully.
We talk about body image issues, societal expectations, anxiety. I check you out briefly, considering. I don’t say anything. I am comfortable here in my body, stretched out across this chair on the beach. I work very hard not to let anything get in the way of enjoying myself at the beach.
‘Why do you take pictures on your camera?’ you ask. I look askance at you quizzically, a question. Isn’t that what cameras are for? ‘Instead of your phone?’ you answer, clarifying in response to my gaze.
I pause to ponder this a moment. ‘It makes me feel more connected,’ I guess, ‘There are so many distractions on my phone. It’s nice to focus just on taking pictures, instead of being distracted by whatever else. It allows me to be more present.’
When you go to use the restroom again, I do allow myself to be distracted by checking my phone. I am feeling happy and warm, beach days always recharging me.
I am attempting to get enough Vitamin D to last me through February, I respond to Alan.
Wait Vitamin D like the sun, correct, this is not an innuendo, he replies.
Vitamin D like the sun, yes, I text back, laughing at my unintentional innuendo.
When you get back, you explain with some relief, ‘I’m happy to see that kid,’ you point out someone in a tan shirt; I can see him farther down the beach. ‘He got into the elevator with me yesterday,’ you recount, yesterday really meaning the wee hours of this morning. ‘He was pretty drunk. But he knew it. He was explaining to me, “There’s drunk,”‘ here you hold up a hand in midair, then place another in the air above it, ‘”And then there’s Alex.”‘ I think it’s cute that you remember this stranger’s name, that you care for him like this.
We talk about relationships. I tell you of all sorts of mine. We agree philosophically: You can learn from any relationship. We wouldn’t change any of ours. They’ve made us who we are. We’re both emotionally mature.
You have a phobia of flying, and forced yourself to go to Iceland as a form of exposure therapy. This is only your second solo trip. Benvenuto a Miami. In Iceland as well as here, you forced yourself to be on your own, to truly learn about yourself. I juxtapose being alone and the solo travelling and living I have done with the spaces in between relationships, those times that people have told me to ‘find myself.’ I’m right here. Always. I can’t escape myself.
‘You have to expose yourself or you don’t grow,’ is your opinion, ‘Like flying, or walking out here without a shirt on.’ I can’t think of a recent example of exposure therapy of myself, but at the same time I don’t think that exposure therapy is the kind of therapy that will heal me. I do, however, have a complicated relationship with bees.
I tell you about moving to Tanzania, about how I have just sort of happened into my various career moves, but about how I am so happy to be where I am now. I am grateful not only for my unique position, but also for my colleagues. I ask you what you like about your line of work.
‘The juxtaposition,’ you start, of death or illness and ‘The fact that it’s a beacon of life. It’s never closed. Like college. Always open. A beacon of light, diversity, self-expression. Nothing in this life is guaranteed.’
You prove that point by telling me some of the more traumatising horrors you’ve witnessed in the ER. I’m experiencing the juxtaposition, sitting here, stretched out on a lounge chair on this beautiful January Miami beach, while you recount tragedies too terrible for me to relay here. ‘Saving the life of…’ you start, ‘…you name the age.’ Young, old, everything in between. People too young to die; people too young to present as old as they seem. That three-month-old; her mother. The exorcism. The links between our bodies and our minds.
This is the perfect way to experience the beach, and I am grateful to you for the opportunity. I offer to spend time at the pool after the beach for you if you like, but by the time the sun starts to move behind the buildings of The Fontainebleau, it’s getting into evening.
‘I’d like to go up to your room to shower and change,’ I tell you, ‘And maybe grab a drink or dinner after. I can’t stay long though; I am planning to co-work with a colleague in the evening.’ It’s only January and scheduling already sucks. But the reality of the healthy work-life balance I try to maintain is that I occasionally trade working on the weekends.
You’re fine with this plan, so we head up to your hotel room.
‘This place is so fucking fancy,’ I continue to remark, winding around the many various pools and beautiful people. I’m a little intimidated, if I’m honest. Being surrounded by luxury and presumed wealth still makes me feel self-conscious, a poor kid from New Hampshire. I feel like I don’t belong here, like I have to act the part, worried that if I slip up my charade will be exposed.
‘The room though?’ you start, ‘Piece of shit.’
This makes me laugh with relief. ‘That’s actually oddly comforting!’ I tell you.
‘You’re paying for this though,’ you gesture, ‘Not the room.’ And you’re right.
Desalinated and desanded, you ask for my opinion on your outfit. We both agree brown is not the move, and you slip into another cream shirt. Cream suits you today.
‘Your body suits you,’ I tell you simply, and this sticks with you. While you shower I sit out on the balcony, take pictures, send them to friends. The man in the hotel room next to you, part of that conference here, comes out to smoke another cigarette. I ask him where he’s from.
‘San Antawn,’ he drawls, taking a drag before asking, ‘Ya’ll?’
I tell him that I’m from Boston; you’re from Jersey. I don’t need to go into any more of the details. I chat with his wife while he takes a call from the Vice president of Construction, and we wave to make ourselves visible from the balcony of the highest tower where the VP has a suite. There’ll be a party in Scott’s room tonight, apparently.
You join me on the balcony after your shower. I’m having a hard time saying goodbye to the beach, so I do what I always do when I’m having a hard time saying goodbye: I just leave.
Back inside your room, you return to what I’d told you before. ‘What did you mean when you said my body suits me?’ you ask.
I try to think of how to frame it. ‘I know you have body image issues, but your body is very you. I hope you get more comfortable in your own skin, grow into it. You have a nice body.’ And you do.
I want to go to La Côte at your hotel for beachside drinks, but it’s closed. We wander down the beach walk, contemplating stopping at a couple places, but never doing so. The next place I want to try doesn’t open for another hour, and I don’t have that kind of time. I’m starting to feel anxious about heading home to work, like I shouldn’t be spending time enjoying myself and should be working instead.
‘OK,’ I state, ‘New plan. We’ll head to the place I had dinner before salsa last night, Sweet Liberty.’ It was an Alan rec, and had pickled devilled eggs that I’m planning to get again.
It’s along this walk that we continue talking about your line of work, why you do what you do.
‘I’m an angel,’ you state, and it’s true. You are indeed an angel. I can’t think of a more accurate description for ER nurses. ‘I never address myself though,’ you add, ‘I suffer too much for other people.’
You tell me about growing up, about your friend you made when you were eight, who was in a wheelchair because of his legs. ‘I knew when I was eight that I wanted to be a nurse,’ you said, simply. This is pretty profound, at least to me. I’ve never experienced that kind of clarity.
We’re turning off the walking path to the cross street where Sweet Liberty is. Coming here turns out to be the right move, because as we exit the beach walk at 20th Street, we are greeted by my car. Right path.
‘Hold on, I have to take a picture of this car,’ I tell you, walking over to it.
‘Ah yeah, you and cars,’ you remember. ‘I never got into them,’ you say. As we stand beside the Miata you’re taken aback. ‘It’s so tiny!’ you explain, sizing yourself up against it. ‘I wouldn’t fit in it!’
‘You would,’ I correct you. ‘You’d have a couple inches of head clearance with the top up. My little brother is 6’4” and just fits. You’d be uncomfortable though.’ I add absentmindedly, ‘It fits me perfectly.’ My car is the perfect Meaghan Cassidy car.
‘What kind of car is it again?’
We spend some time on our walk figuring out which cars you like. You like boxy ones. I say you like Mustangs, and you look them up, but say that’s not it. ‘Challenger then? It’s either a Mustang or a Challenger, like that,’ I point out, the next car leaving the parking garage we’re walking by helpfully being a Challenger. ‘It’s whatever Vin Deisel drives in Fast and Furious,’ you say. ‘I don’t know anything about Fast and Furious cars,’ I start, ‘But I’m going to say Vin Deisel definitely drives a Mustang in that movie.’ You look it up, and prove me correct. You like a slightly older model styling, unlike the newest ones that showed up in your first search results.
‘Yeah, a Mustang is very fitting for you. It’s a car for straightaways. It can’t corner. My car is made for joyful back-road driving, hugging the curves.’ I try to keep myself from gushing too much about Miatas, from losing you in a conversation topic you wouldn’t understand. You could pull off a Mustang convertible, although you shouldn’t.
As we scan the happy hour menu (I keep forgetting this is a thing, and am overjoyed every time I am reminded!) I get a notification from Peter. His son has brought home a bug and gotten the whole house sick. Co-working is off this evening. I respond reminding him to take care of himself; the work will be there, and we’ll get it done.
This changes plans for the evening, however, and my drink order. I give you the update. I also order those devilled eggs.
I’m still trying to understand your line of work. I ask you not what you like about your line of work now, but about the work in particular. What do you get out of it?
‘It’s physically different,’ you answer, and I imagine you doing all sorts of physical things. I also imagine my skinny cousin Elise doing the same, or Emily’s little sister Sarah, or my Aunt Roberta. You are aware there are nurses in my life; this sticks with you because when I mention it again you interject, ‘Yeah, you said there were three.’
As I’m getting your opinion on Lambrusco in particular and chilled sparkling red wine in general, an ambulance pulls up and stops across the street. You tense, look to your left, laugh at yourself. ‘Do they need my help?’ you joke. They probably do, but we should let it go. While we’re both a little leery of EMTs, we’re also here to enjoy ourselves, not to work or saves lives. The man with something wrong with his leg seems like he’ll be fine tonight.
So after Sweet Liberty, I pitch you: ‘Let’s go to the Grove. We can walk my favourite walk, and get a walking beer along the way. We can find somewhere to eat, or head back to my place for some wine.’
And that’s what we end up doing, you continuing to let me lead. No longer having to work, I feel like this is an evening on borrowed time. We’re going to enjoy it. You’re flying home tomorrow. How should we spend your last night in Miami?
You offer to drive, but I want to continue drinking, with fewer worries. This is a problem I can solve with money. We’ll take a Lyft, and figure it out from there as we go along.
And we do. We take a car to Monty’s, the novelty of being able to grab a walking beer still not having waned for me. We walk, and talk; discuss, and debate. It’s important to me that you understand because of the power dynamics inherently implied in the system, it’s impossible to be racist against white people, impossible to be sexist against men. One can discriminate, sure, but it’s not racism, or sexism in those instances. It’s not a disagreement; it just is. There is classism, ableism—all of these other oppressive systems, sure, all working in combination for and against various people. Privilege is complicated.
We stop at that beach bar after our walking beers, the huge one with the five entrances. I know that we can just walk up to the bar, so we do. Despite its size, and the earliness of the evening, there are only two seats open. They’re the only two seats I’ve ever sat in here, having come here only one time before. I hate this, but I don’t tell you why, and I don’t fight it; I sit down in the same seat I had sat last time. We continue talking, shaping opinions, disagreeing, but respectfully. I had felt self-conscious sometimes about how often I was taking out my phone to jot down notes, apologising, but now, writing this, I wish I’d done so more. It doesn’t matter, though.
We continue our walk, and finish it. I ask if you’d like to head somewhere else, or come back to my place for some wine. We head back to my place. I’m proud to show it off, well appointed and comfortable. You try out various seats and I let you, before sitting us down on the couch to continue our conversation. A lot of it circles around our respective anxieties and how we cope with them; I think we’re just enjoying feeling seen by each other. I talk of the things that help get me out of my head: Yoga, rock climbing, biking, even driving. I’m forced to be fully present. I like these moments, not lost in the worries of what might come to pass in the future. You relate, talking of jujitsu. Having never taken a class, I have a hard time following, and being a kinaesthetic learner, we accidentally end up doing some jujitsu on my couch. This is also not an innuendo. You demonstrate locks, or holds—I’ll be honest that I didn’t really retain whatever you were trying to teach me, laughing too hard at myself and my life. What is this? Jujitsuing on my Airbnb couch with a stranger who is also my salsa partner. It’s ridiculous, but it’s also not that unbelievable. What is this life.
You’d rather not stay over. You prefer your own space, waking up in your own bed, your own routine without disruption. Plus, your phobia of flying is already making you start to feel anxious about tomorrow. I appreciate that we approach decision-making at the margin, each of us considering what we want, and compromising on whatever will lead to the least amount of stress in the system. I have work in the morning anyway. You might swing by for lunch before having to head to the airport. We say goodnight and goodbye, another night and another bye not knowing whether it will be our last.
It isn’t, because you do come over for lunch. I invite you, but explain I’m free literally from 12 to 1PM. By the time you arrive, I add that someone scheduled a quick check-in at 12:45 that I’m planning to attend. I’m starting to feel anxious myself, about the work I have to finish this week, about packing and the logistics of heading home Saturday. I’m a bit surprised to find myself annoyed at all of that, of having to work.
‘I should have taken today off.’
‘You can’t call in sick?’
‘It doesn’t really work like that,’ I explain, and while I know you can’t relate to what it’s like any more than I can relate to working in the ER, you appreciate what I do for a living.
‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘I’ll be out of meetings by 3. Why don’t you swing by and we can grab a coffee before you have to head to the airport.’ This will give me enough time to finish working on my presentation after you leave, while still allowing us to hang out one more time.
You arrive, and I walk down to hop into the BMW convertible that is your rental car. You move some things around, making room for me.
‘I had some of those pastries you brought,’ I tell you, ‘They were really fucking good.’
‘Which one?’
‘Not the green one. The pink one. Was it strawberry-rhubarb?’
‘I know you don’t have a sweet tooth,’ you had remembered, as you had placed the box of pastries on my dining table, ‘But these looked good.’ I hadn’t wanted any at lunch, but my curiosity and time crunch got the better of me, and I tried a bite before you arrived. I would finish the pink one later, if it’s still around.
‘Do you want to drive?’ you ask, and I glance at the disappointing center console. Automatics just don’t inspire me.
‘Nah, I’ll pass.’
‘Second question,’ you say, ‘Can I stay over?’
I look at you skeptically. I know you wouldn’t be asking without good reason, but still I can’t help but ask, ‘Don’t you have a flight to catch?’
‘It got delayed.’ You’re already anxious enough about flying; this delay due to the winter wonderland everyone back home is telling me about is too much of a change of plans for you, so you’ve resolved to move your flight to tomorrow in order to alleviate as much of that anxiety as possible.
‘I want to say yes,’ I start, which is true, ‘But I’m going into the office tomorrow, and I’m feeling some anxiety about the work that I have to finish for Wednesday. I think it would be too much of a change of routine for me.’ I know that I could make it work, but the thought of managing all of those logistics, of finding time to hang with you around the work I want to finish, of feeling obligated to oblige, my habit of finding ways to say yes to things without first considering what I want or what’s best for me—my intuition tells me to say no, so I do. I know you understand.
‘I really want to say yes,’ I say, honestly, for my own reasons as well as yours. ‘It would be so convenient for you.’
‘Nah,’ you say. ‘I’m fine. I can get a hotel. Don’t worry about it. Like you say, I’m just gonna do me, and you do you.’
‘It sounds deceptively simple,’ I muse, ‘Doing me. But that’s just the thing: I don’t know what I want to do.’
Well, I have some idea of what I want, but I am beginning to realise I’m not ready for it yet.
With this change of plans, though, comes another one. ‘If you’re not leaving until tomorrow, why don’t we do dinner or drinks later, instead of hanging now? It will be a nice motivation for me, to finish my work so I can enjoy spending time with you later.’
We agree on this plan, and you set off to sort yourself out.
Of course, I’m never as far along with work as I’d like to be. I’m feeling a lot of anxiety about it, and probably about the packing I have to do before heading home. Logically, I know I don’t need to worry about these things. I confess my Catholic guilt to Peter.
He helpfully plays my own words back to me. As you’d say to me, guilt and worry won’t help and taking care of yourself is going to do more good than worryingly puttering on this stuff right now. Reading this is a comfort, so much so that I literally breathe a sign of relief. We’re in it together.
The thing I’m always forgetting about all that I put out into the world—the reassurances, the support, the gifts, the joy, the love—is that these things have a way of coming back to you. Still, I continue to be surprised when others show me the same sort of care and consideration I would show them without a second thought.
Go enjoy yourself a bit, Peter tells me, and I take this to heart.
‘Let’s check out Kush,’ I tell you, explaining that no, not like that, it’s owned by Matthew Kushner. Alan works Mondays, and while I’m not sure yet what I want to do for the rest of the evening, I know that I want to start it with a beer at Kush.
We enter the bar triumphantly, or at least I do. You’re a little worried about meeting Alan, having just explained to me that one thing I should know about introducing you to my friends is that you typically get along with women easily enough, but not men. It strikes me that you are imagining meeting my friends, framing it. It’s not wrong right now, though; Alan is a friend. I am not worried about you meeting Alan, because of who Alan is, but I can’t sufficiently reassure you about it, you not having met him yet. You’re just going to have to do it. Exposure therapy.
Alan sets us up nicely. I decide what beers we’ll drink, and he brings them over and introduces himself.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the evening?’ he asks.
‘Well, we’re going to figure that out over this beer!’ I tell him. ‘We don’t want to drink too much though. We want to grab food somewhere after. Where should we go?’
‘Have you been to Taurus?’ he asks. It’s owned by a hospitality group with a few restaurants next to each other, so benefits by having better food than you’d expect for a beer and whiskey house. I know this is where we’ll go, but Alan still spouts off a few other options.
I mishear him at one point. ‘Taurus, Aries—why are these all astrological places?’
‘Aries?’ he asks, before correcting, ‘No, Harry’s.’
‘Nah, not Harry’s,’ I remind the two of you.
‘Taurus then. Great. I’ll set the two of you up with a drink, maybe a drink and a half, then send you on your way and tell you to go explore!’
‘Slap our asses on the way out?’ I joke, repeating back to Alan what he told me he would have done had he been my bartender that night at Vicky’s.
When you go to use the restroom, Alan grabs my attention from behind the bar.
‘Psst! Psst! Meg!’ I look over. ‘Do we like him?’
‘Yeah we like him,’ I answer, ‘I wouldn’t bring someone here unless they’re good people,’ I reassure him.
‘Good, good for you!’
Neither of us wants to get too drunk, but we still take the tiny cordial shots Alan brings over. ‘Everyone at the bar gets one,’ he says, and you can’t argue with his logic.
After our beers, we ponder our next move. Alan makes excellent cocktails. Should we go though? We ask for his opinion as he rattles off some things he could make. I’m not in the mood for a margarita, but am surprised to find an espresso martini piquing my interest. We decide to split one.
Alan clips a note to the rim of the glass with the world’s smallest clothespin. ‘I want you to read that to her out loud,’ he says, bringing our drink over.
‘Well, that’s going to be hard,’ you say, ‘I’m dyslexic. It’s just hard for me to—’ but you cut yourself off as you look back down at the note. I have a video of you saying this on my phone, but I stop recording and put my phone away while you read it. I want to be fully present. This is just for me, not for sharing.
This experience is such a funny hallmark of your time here. Exposure therapy really suits you. You’re doing all of these things that exacerbate your anxiety, but you’re pulling them off so nonchalantly that I don’t pick up on any of your stress. In fact, hanging out with you has helped me stress less. You’re easy to be around. We both have strong senses of self, and take the time to consider what it is we actually want before making a decision. No forcing, just doing what we want to do. Going with the flow.
You make it through the poem just fine. It’s flirty, silly. It doesn’t quite fit the mood, but it’s also not inaccurate.
We finish our drink and get the check, presented in an old VHS tape box. We hug Alan goodbye, and he sends us on our way to go enjoy, albeit without ass-slapping.
As we traverse the tiny entirety of Coconut Grove’s Central Business District, you ask me, ‘What do you think about us?’
The truth is, I hadn’t thought about us. I’m not entirely sure what you mean, so before I realise what I’m saying, I ask, ‘What do you mean, “us?”’ my clarifying question unintentionally acting as an answer to yours. I catch up a beat too late.
‘Ohhh,’ I realise. ‘I mean, you’re not like, the future father of my children. But I would like to remain friends.’ I’m not as worried as I think I ought to be, telling you something you might not want to hear. I don’t even consider that, really, and reflect on that a moment. I’m just trying to practice what I’ve been trying to practice all this past year: Staying close to my feelings, thinking about what I want. It’s easy in the short-term. The longer-term still gives me some anxiety.
‘Yeah,’ you muse, ‘We have a lot of differences. Which we communicate about and respect.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
We cross the street and pass a vizsla, the Grove being full of dogs. ‘A vizsla,’ I point out. ‘Objectively the best dog. The kind of dog I’m going to get.’ As we walk by, the vizsla jumps up and nips at you.
‘It bit me,’ you state nonchalantly, surprising me.
‘What!? They’re not usually nippy… Should we do something,’ I turn around to see whether the man walking the vizsla has stopped.
You hold up your forearm against the dim street light. ‘Nah, didn’t break the skin.’ Ever the ER nurse.
Over dinner—which is a margarita pizza that inexplicably comes with kimchi and pickled onions—you explain just how I’m not your type. You have a type. And it’s true that I’m not it.
I can’t remember whether I explain my type to you, then or any other time. I do remember that I argued vehemently against you any time you called yourself stupid. You’re not. You wouldn’t have been able to hold my attention this long if you weren’t intellectual to some degree.
We walk back to my place again, making the most of this second gift of an evening on borrowed time. You’re not supposed to be here; you’re supposed to be on a plane. I’m supposed to have been working these past two nights. The work will be there, and I’ll get it done. And you’ll get home.
‘Thanks for everything, really,’ you tell me just as you’re about to leave. I know you mean it, and I appreciate how genuinely you do.
‘Thank you for everything,’ I reply. These aren’t the right words for me. It’s not that I don’t mean it, but I mean something differently. I start to clarify, trying to find the right words. ‘It was a nice surprise to spend time with you these last few days.’ I do mean that. I was surprised to find that when I considered it, I wanted to give you a rare gift, the gift of my time. I’d rather hang out with you, still doing the things I want to do, but enjoying them more with your company than alone. You never made me feel like I owed you anything. I felt comfortable enough around you to be honest with you, not to worry about how you might react if our wants were at odds with each other’s. That was a gift. Thank you, John.
I never told you, but when I was tidying up around my place, I went to throw away the box that those pastries had come in. Alongside it was the receipt from your hotel parking. As I glanced at it absentmindedly before recycling it, I noticed your name on it, Shawn. Had I really gotten it wrong this whole time? This threw me for a loop. But I had given you my phone to add your own name to it, hadn’t I? On the beach? I kept the receipt out for a couple days, wondering what your name really was, whether you yourself were real at all. How I might ask you without sounding like an idiot. I never did. Eventually, I went to recycle the receipt while I was cleaning before leaving. I wasn’t going to keep it, but maybe I would take a picture of it, in case I ever did text you, or at least tell you this. As I went to do so, I noticed the last 4 of your card at the bottom of the receipt, and your name, John. I wasn’t the only one who found it hard to understand, apparently. I’m glad you do exist, though.
I recognise some of these statements are in the past tense. I was being honest when I told you I want to remain friends. I don’t know what that looks like, though. I know we’ve texted, talked. I imagine texting is difficult for you. I was surprised to find I wanted to talk with you on my walk, but you didn’t pick up. Wasn’t meant to be.
I think that’s how I’ll continue: Staying close to my feelings, thinking about what I want. I’ll be in New York inevitably—I always end up there at least once a year. I don’t know if I’ll have enough time to meet up, if the thought of fitting you into my schedule will stress me out too much. I suppose we’ll find out together.
‘I expect this by Tuesday,’ you told me, giving me a deadline for this post.
‘It will be up by a Tuesday,’ I tell you. (And hey, look, it is.) It’s cute that you think you can give me a deadline, really, and I appreciate that you try. This blog is for me (and a bit for Mary Beth); I won’t have it dictated to me. I did enjoy writing this, though, for myself. It’s long; I’m not sorry.
Nothing in this life is promised. Thanks for keeping me company in Miami, friend, and sometimes salsa partner.