We go to Diner for Valentine's Day, of course. It's close to my house, and the food is always good. I should mention it's the first time in my life that I've had a Valentine's Day date, a variety of issues having previously prevented such an occurrence, including (but not limited to): an unusually high number of long distance relationships (and long distance phone bills), cheap/poor boyfriends ("Can we just get drunk instead?"), weird boyfriends ("Valentine's Day is for capitalists."), annoying boyfriends ("I've got band practice, doll,"), and, my personal favorite (and the usual culprit), no boyfriends at all.

So: Diner, Saturday night, Valentine's Day, and it's an hour wait for a table. We go to Bembe first and I get drunk on hot, spiced wine, which is a nice reprieve from my hangover acquired the previous night, only everything starts to feel a little fuzzy, and then, clear, but it is a false clarity, of course. I've convinced myself everything is real, but the truth is, it is actually heightened, so by the time we return to Diner for our meal I have the sense that everything that is happening around us is a performance specifically created for our viewing pleasure. I do not fill my date in on this theory, but I suspect he feels the same.

First we run into a friend of his and his girlfriend. They're having an anniversary; their first date was at Diner one year ago. They are so well-scrubbed it is almost painful. I notice his girlfriend has accesorized incredibly well. (My eyeliner came off on the walk over, my eyes tearing up in the wind.) Like, they are just really, really cute. Since this is my first time out in the world of people who have Valentine's Day dates I am mesmerized. Are these the people who actually get to have a normal existence, and do things like have first anniversary dates? I am always out with a girlfriend in a dive bar getting drunk on February 14. Dinner and drinks. Fascinating.

The host (and I think maybe one of the owners), usually nattily dressed, is wearing a red velvet sports coat in honor of the occasion. It doesn't suit him. (No pun intended. Really.) He escorts us to our table, my favorite corner booth in the front room. There is a chair next to us, and as the restaurant is crowded with people waiting, other patrons occasionally sit next to the us with their drink while waiting for the host to call them to their table. It's a little annoying, but we roll with it. We're all friends here.

In fact I easily ignore it at first, but then a couple - French, I think - take over the spot. She's a petite, flashy brunette, and he seems a little bit older than her, maybe ten years. She's seated on his lap. They ask if they can put their beer on the edge of our table. We say yes. As time goes on they grow casual with us, leaning closer to the table, placing their drinks next to our bottle of water. They're not speaking with us, but they're definitely invading our space. When I rise to go the bathroom, they barely move to get out of my way; he merely swirls her around to the other side of the chair. For most of the night I expect them to start fucking.

After our appetizer but before the main course (I had ordered the lamb), I spend a few minutes trying to figure out if I can get away with spilling their beer on them, and whether or not it would make me laugh. I decide it would make me laugh, but there was absolutely no way I could get away with it. Just thinking about it makes me happy, so I say: Fuck you, Frenchies - somewhere out there, in some parallel universe where I am queen of the world, you two totally got beer spilled on you.

I decide my date is the only reasonable person in the joint and I'm so glad he is sitting across from me. The food is really good. I am happy.

Then a woman walks over to the table, blond (fresh highlights), tall, slender, pretty, and says my name. "It's me, Gail. You moved into my apartment." And indeed it was the woman who lived in the loft before me, with her husband and her dog. I remember meeting them on a Sunday morning after responding to their Craig's List ad, and thinking that they had a remarkably cozy life. He was an architect, she worked for a software company, often at home. I pictured their dog sleeping in her lap as she worked at the computer during the day. They had a huge entertainment center and a flat screen tv, a fluffy grey couch with two matching ottomans which they had purchased at the ABC Carpet & Home flagship store on Broadway, and a "meet cute" story, all sealing the veneer of their wedded bliss.

"I'm in Greenpoint now, and I love it," says Gail. "Tim and I got divorced six months after we moved."

Of course they got divorced. Of course.

I am instantly reminded of my neighbors down the hall, the married couple in their 30s who had two dogs and a gorgeous space. They also split within six months of me moving into my apartment. I remember Gail telling me to make friends with them, that they were great people, and they were. When they moved out (he to Hell's Kitchen, she to the Upper East Side) they had a huge furniture sale and they gave me a bunch of stuff for free, including two small, wooden chairs, both with a rustic look. I've been calling them the "Divorce Chairs," since I got them.

I mention their names to Gail and she says, "Yea, they're divorced too! " She is far too giddy about this, like it's a thing to do, getting divorced, like getting a piercing or a house in the Hamptons or something. And then I, making my brief cameo appearance in the very special Valentine's Day episode of my life actually utter the words, "I guess we're sort of the divorce floor, huh?"

"Yea, I guess!" She didn't even miss a beat.

Here I was wondering what the normal people were doing all my life, and apparently they're staying married for 6-7 years and then separating their overpriced furniture down the middle and getting new apartments. Anyway, she looked really happy, and was way more attractive than I remember. Now all of a sudden I want a divorce. Or at the very least, highlights.

The lamb was excellent, by the way. The meat just fell right off the bone.

archives | w-w home | mail