Full Circle
I’m on the phone with Natalia. “I’m sorry I missed the party and I’m sorry I disappeared for so long,” she says.
“That’s okay. Really.”
It is okay, I realize. Everything comes full circle. People disappear, for years sometimes, only to reappear. Even Leslie and I, the inseparable duo, have walked our solitary paths.
“I finally broke up with the man so I’ve been dealing with that. He kept pushing the marriage idea and I didn’t want to go there with him and, well, you know…”
And he was twenty years your senior, dear, and wrong for you in a million other ways. But who am I to argue against the comforts of passing the time with someone? Of filling what might otherwise be lonely nights in front of the teevee with a warm and somewhat agreeable human form? No, as much as I’ve dabbled in the dating world it’s still an alien landscape to me. Hopelessly blinded as I am by the love of a good woman, I’m in no place to pass judgement.
So I utter the incantations that are expected of me. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say. “You’re young, after all.”
“I’ll miss the little things he did for me, but I know it’s better this way.”
Dating is eternal return—you place your hope in another but really you’re staring into a funhouse mirror, seeing yourself over and over again, straining to discern truth in illusion. Am I really the creature staring back at me? Maybe the mirror always tells the truth and you have to learn to live with yourself. Maybe it lies until you find someone who puts your faults into perspective. What do I know?
Chris, formerly of the infamous Chelsea Grill, wasn’t so much born as poured from a tap. That is to say he’s one of those rare individuals who’s found his calling, being damned quick with the drinks and damned good with the customers—so good, in fact, that his loyal fans sometimes buy him expensive gifts. Les and I hadn’t seen him for over two years but he stayed in touch and let us know when he landed at a new watering hole on the Upper East Side.
“Still with the same woman?” I ask. His wife is an accomplished novelist. I’ve only met her once or twice.
“Oh yes.” His Irish accent is mild—a slight variation, here and there, on the vowels. “And what about you, Lex? Still with the same garls?” He winks and flashes a devilish grin. Har har har.
It’s the same grin (the addition of a few wrinkles notwithstanding) that he flashed me a little over four years ago on the balmy summer evening this all began, when Leea and Leslie made an arch over my lap, their eyes closed and lips locked together. This was long before it would occur to us to date in threes or attend a naked loft party, when our non-monogamous life was like the kiss itself: wet and blissful and improbable.
He smiles now as Les and Emma form a similar arch over my lap. He smiles and I shrug and we’ve come full circle: in spite of my vain attempts to domesticate these moments they remain as wild and puzzling as ever.
My head may explode one day. This may all come to a screeching halt or else quietly fade to black. But I know my thoughts will return again and again to everything that’s happened, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have a good chuckle every time.
More: Natalia | Emma | Dating | Eternal Return
