“He’s actually decided to stay an extra week and help me find an apartment.”
I can see the relief in Melody’s face, her smile returns and life goes to normal for the moment. But her question brought our relationship to the forefront. Soon enough, we’re gonna have to figure out what the future looks like—if there is one. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about a future with her. But with every glancing thought of us being together, comes another one reminding me that I’m broken. My mood swings on a pendulum, violently back and forth, leaving me confused. One minute, I’m wishing I’d thrown her number out; the next minute, I’m imagining what a lazy Sunday would look like with her.
“You always try to do the right thing Miles. I’ve always loved that about you,” my mother says. I close my eyes for a second, before opening them to see if this is really my mother. My eyes meet Lily’s and we silently agree that, yes, this is our mother, and yes, that was a compliment about who I was as a person.
The tension is slowly evaporating, and we could almost pass for normal. Helen is now telling stories of her travels, some that Lily and I have heard and some new ones. The laughs are flowing as freely as the alcohol, and I imagine that we look like any other family in the city to the other tables around us. Lily and I exchange looks of relief, acknowledging that she’s a different person—at least for now.
I think back to the funeral, and how she held my hand as the caskets were lowered into the ground, tears rolling down her face as she buried her only grandchildren. I thought she was there for show, and now I feel bad because I never acknowledged the pain she must’ve felt. She had lost her only grandkids, and with with my age—and Lily being Lily—likely her only chance at being a grandmother. After the funeral she stayed with me for awhile, catering to my every need, and all I could do was make snippy remarks. The love of my life had perished, and it never occurred to me that after watching my father leave, she was the one person in my life that could understand how I was feeling.
Dr. Felt asked me to give her my favorite memories of my mother. Right now, this moves to the top of the list. This woman is my mother, the one I thought was long gone.
She rises from her seat, glass in hand, ready to propose a toast.
“To old friends, new lovers …” she shoots a lightening quick glance at Melody, caught by both Lily and I. We exchange looks, no doubt both of us wondering if we’d imagined that. She focuses on me and Melody, her eyes shining from the alcohol and chic lighting.
“… and to coffee and condolences.”
Fifteen
Reckoning
The door of Melody’s apartment creaks open, piercing the silence as we step into her living room. A faint beep of a triggered alarm requires her attention, and while she steps away to enter the code, I stand looking around, silently judging her belongings—like humans are known to do. The space is small, which is to be expected in New York, but it doesn’t feel cramped. Her bedroom is at the end of a hallway, the door slightly ajar like I’m getting a slight glimpse at her soul. She enters the code and goes through the normal paces we all do after arriving at home, flipping on lights, and going through mail. I take a seat on the couch and let her do her thing.
There’s no sense of urgency toward our plans for the evening, and I’m thankful for that. I’m still trying to process the dinner with my mother. I can’t figure out what her angle is and it’s killing me. Maybe Dr. Felt was right; maybe she has changed and I’ve just been stubborn in my view of the woman she’s become.
“You thirsty?” she asks from the kitchen.
“No, I’m good.”
“You’re clamming up again.”
I’m not clamming up, I’m playing defense. Let me explain.
Men, as a gender, are all the same. Of course we look different and speak differently as well. But when it comes to sex, or in this case, a situation where sex is guaranteed, we’re all the same. We go into self-preservation mode.
Men by nature are stupid, and thus prone to saying stupid shit at the worst time. As you can imagine, this is a problem when trying to convince someone of the opposite sex to engage in intercourse. So what do you do?
Well, if you’re smart, you realize there’s only one thing to do.
Shut the fuck up.
Now, this can be done in many ways. For example, when I was was married and I knew that sex was in the cards, I would do housework. Yard work isn’t as grueling when you know theres a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. When I was single, that wasn’t an option, so I stuck with the military drill—speak only when spoken to. Imagine the end of a close football game, and your team is up and has the ball. They stop taking unnecessary risks. As a man, it’s the same principle, just run the clock out. If you’re a female, think about the next time you’re on a date or out with your husband. Pay attention to his mood shift, and ask yourself: Has it been established that we’re going to have sex? If the answer is yes, it’ll all make sense.
Melody scampers by on her way to the bedroom, running her fingers on the back of my neck as she passes, a subtle reminder of what’s to come. I briefly contemplate joining her, but I lack the confidence required for such a feat. This whole scenario doesn’t feel real, and I keep glancing at the door, expecting Dr. Felt to walk though it and pronounce that I had passed the final test and am free to move on with my life. To pass the time, I skim through Melody’s record collection.
It’s meticulously organized for mood, each section individually labeled. It’s like a political convention with each section represented by the best candidate. Depression is represented well by The Smiths, while happiness is highlighted by The Cars and Tears for Fears. Stevie Wonder represents the housekeeping section along with Pat Benatar. Naturally, I pay attention to the intimacy section—just to get an idea of where her head is at. Teddy Pendergrass dominates this section, bookended by The Isley Brothers and Dru Hill. The takeaway from that section is she’s a passionate lover; but I also wonder how many guys have stood in this very spot, looking around at the furniture, wondering what positions match well with the playlist. My eye catches a sheet of paper, a list of songs labeled ‘Work Playlist.’
I open it expecting a mix of indie rock and Top 40 hits, but it’s surprisingly hip-hop centered with a sprinkling of modern R&B. At the top of the list, circled in black, is T-Pain’s ‘I’m in Love with a Stripper,’ immediately taking me back to Harmony—and I suspect it always will. It’s a well thought out playlist, songs sequenced to mirror the ebbs and flows of a work shift.
Melody returns to the living room in classic lounge clothes—baggy sweats and sweatshirt. Removing her hair tie, she falls on the couch with a deep sigh which makes my heart drop. When Sara would take her hair tie out and sigh, that usually meant sex was not happening. But I’m confident that we’ve consumed enough alcohol to render that thought moot.
“Well, that was an interesting evening,” she says, “Given what you told me about her, I figured there’d be more fireworks.”
“Dinners with her usually are. In fact, given our history, it went better than I expected.”