I left the apartment and caught the subway to my meeting on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t looked at my phone for an entire hour, so I allowed myself a quick peek on the train. I’d been on a once-an-hour diet since I sent Bryan the note yesterday so I figured I deserved many pats on the back. That was good restraint, right?
When his name appeared in my email now, I squeaked out an excited oh.
I wanted to smack myself. What was wrong with me? I didn’t even like him.
Control. I had to stay in control, so I didn’t open the email right away. Instead, I triple-quadruple checked the charms in the inside pocket of my purse, I appraised my lipstick in the train window, and I peered at the time on my watch. Then, as if I’d proven myself to the judge and jury of me, I took a breath, and calmly tapped on the note.
Kat — I trust we’re still on for tomorrow? I’ll send my car to pick you up at 9 a.m. if that works for you. Are you one of those rare breeds who can manage the morning without caffeinated assistance? (By the way, if I was an emoticon guy I’d insert one here, but I’m not a practitioner of smiley face symbols and/or Internet abbreviations.) If not, please let me know your caffeine preferences these days and whether you like coffee, tea or one of those fluffy drinks with lots of milk and made-up sounding names.
My best,
Bryan
I re-read the note several times, always stopping at the same spot — these days. Had he truly forgotten my tastes? He knew well and good that I worshipped at the altar of fluffy drinks with frothy flavors. Maybe he was simply playing along with the whole “we just met routine” he’d tried on the other day in Washington Square Park. Or maybe he’d forgotten the details of me since I’d never really mattered to him. Fine, it was just a coffee preference we were taking about. Still, if he couldn’t remember, then I didn’t want him to know I marked time on my calendar by counting down the days until Starbucks added salted caramel hot chocolate to its menu for those delirious few weeks near the holidays. I didn’t want to confess I’d try any drink with an -ino ending.
I hit reply.
Bryan — The time is fine. I’ll take my coffee with a splash of cream, please.
Best,
Kat
I re-read my note. It didn’t sound like me one bit. Normally, I’d try to say something clever in reply, like I am not familiar with the concept of being perky, peppy or even awake sans those magical energy imps found in coffee or tea. But he hadn’t earned the right to banter again. Besides, if I didn’t let him in, he couldn’t hurt me. The train pulled into my stop and I exited, walking quickly up the steps and into the sunshine of a late Manhattan morning. As I waited for the light at the crosswalk, I glanced at the screen to see Bryan had already written back.
Kat — Funny, I seem to recall you were rather fond of caramel-itos and mocha-treat-os. Wondering what else I’ll learn about how your tastes have changed in the last five years. Oh wait, we’re starting over, so this is all new information to me. Black coffee with a touch of cream it is then.
No emoticon inserted here intentionally even though I would wink if you were here in person.
My best,
Bryan
I fumed and I soared at once. How could be possibly act like we were starting anything over? Had he forgotten the way he’d dumped me? And yet, I felt the tiniest zing race through me when I read his words. Because he did remember details of me. But it was time for my meeting, so as I walked into a small restaurant with crisp white tablecloths, stainless steel vases holding lilies, and waiters wearing perfectly knotted ties, I extradited Bryan and his coffee winks from my brain.
*****
Mrs. Claire Oliver ordered a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. I followed her low-cal lead, opting for a Caesar with light dressing. She drank iced tea and I did the same. She was a pretty woman, with dark blond hair, cut in a straight and sharp bob, haunting brown eyes, and creamy white skin. She wore a sea-green blouse, designer jeans that probably cost more than my rent, and a pair of suede cutout Giuseppe Zanotti heels that were the height of haute couture. She was impeccably put together, like a Hollywood star appearing on a talk show, and she was younger than I expected. Professor Oliver had to be in his fifties, but I was betting his wife was no more than thirty-five.
“Mr. Oliver tells me you’re one of his best students,” Claire said as the waiter walked away.
“He’s very kind to say that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t say it unless it were true. He thinks you’re going to be a superstar in your field. I wouldn’t be surprised either, because I think your designs are top-notch,” she said, and she wasn’t the warmest woman, but there was something admiring in her tone.