Academic obligations end at 4 p.m. Thursdays, the same time social ones begin. Vietnamese coffee at Toscanini’s with Vix. Kay on Mass Ave, between tests. Speed dinner at Grafton Street with NS (aka Nate), whose initials might as well mean “not single.”
Sprinting sprinting sprinting from Mather to the Square, stilettos in hand and my feet bare. Four T-tokens and sleepy-headed Editor. Last winter’s boy at the turnstile, three stops removed from his home, eight months removed from my heart. In the interim, he dyed his hair black and like me, it doesn’t suit him.
He said my name. I couldn’t bring myself to say his, so I introduced Editor instead. I didn’t ask why he never called.
Abruptly, Park Street. Across the Common, beyond the Gardens, past the Ritz — and now the shoes must come on after blocks of dirt and brick.
Inside, there is open-bar-assisted chatter. I am “Samidha” to the guest list. “No,” I tell them. “I do not have a business card.”
Tonight, talking comes between bites. Six drinks later, Editor and I stumble. On words, mostly. Ironic that the conversation is less steady than my feet.
Promises to keep, she reminds me. And so we walk the miles to the T, with whispers of Wurtzel, of writing, of weary between us. For her, there will be no sleep tonight.
Thursday, I am not done with you.