I like Jazz in the rain…its contemplative calm… But for some reason, today, listening to Miles Davis blow on his trumpet, something seems a bit off…Jazz was my quinessential New York City soundtrack. The jazz era was long gone when I treaded through those streets…but the sound of an alto sax could always be counted on to underscore a lonely walk through the village at sun down…or an afternoon spent kissing in central park…The melancholy tones wafted out my windows on rainy nights when I was lonely…that music kept me in great company in that most seductively solitary of cities….and listening to it right now, seems a little out of place while cars drive down Sunset Blvd….but I listen to it anyway…because it’s a habit I’m not willing to break…

There’s a strange girl looking at me - her eyebrows are unseemly thick, overgrown with neglect; her disheveled mound of curls spiral defiantly atop her head, coupling perfectly with her charmingly askew ruby red glasses. She keeps eyeing me anxiously and writing in her beaten up black mole skin notebook- her chipped long-ago manicured nails moving fervorishly across the page every time she steals a glance at me. Dear, God! A more tragic mess of an urban inhabitant I could not imagine! Everything about this poor fallen Manhattan-ite, from the fat run protruding from her beaten in Fry boot, marking its path up her thigh, to her un-ironed chosen plaid skirt scream Hot Mess. Who IS this woman?!

            Oh shit…it’s me. That mortifying creature is the train wreck that’s left of me after the emotional clusterfuck  of a relationship I just escaped from.  Doubts permeate through my shattered ego: Is it me?! Or does everyone end up looking like a post heroine Edie Sedgewick wannabe after the end of an affair?….Anyone?…Anyone?….No?…Well, shit.

            My sad and sorry reflection post break up always makes me wonder just exactly how normal I am (and I’m talking about New York standards here…the only standards that count…heaven knows what they gage normalcy in such esoteric lands as Ohio…or Poughkeepsie…places people claim exist but no one seems to visit) because Christine without a boyfriend is a far cry from Christine with a boyfriend- besides the usual 15 pound difference that goes along with the break of a felicitous relationship, (and by felicitous of course I mean, emotionally manipulative and controlling, tear induced mascara tracked state of being) there is so much difference between the stranger staring at me in the mirror versus the one that I remember. What happened to the Christine with perfectly coiffed flat ironed hair on a Tuesday afternoon, just in case he called to stop by? Where are the 4 inch heels of confidence that helped her strut down the East Village streets? What the fuck did she do with the thousand dollar treasure trove of hand bags that she used to tote around town for her dinner dates? WHAT?!…oh, how I mourn her loss!

Is that wrong of me? Okay, so my face isn’t lined with black tracks of running eyeliner due to floods of tears from my inability of actually getting this man to commit to me; but at least I didn’t horrify those who stand by me because I look like a junkie suffering from withdrawls, sipping my third glass of proseco at 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon at my local neighborhood haunt. Miserable as I was in my tumultuous relationship, at least it gave me some kind of anchor. And let’s face it, in a town like New York, I’ll settle for whatever emotional stability I can get…even if he made me cry every week, at least I could count on that, and have something to discuss with my therapist…after all, in any good urban relationship, material is key. Now I’m left alone…again…left to venture the vast urban Manhattan terrain for some new material…

I woke up this morning in a strange bed. I opened my eyes after a deep night’s rest and the unfamiliar surroundings confused me; and all at once, like a wave, I was washed away into a memory of the last time I had felt the same confusion upon opening my weary eyes.

It was at His apartment, after a tiresome night of revelry…I had fallen asleep without him because he had wandered off when we got home…and the same want and anxiousness that I had fallen asleep with, pervaded when I realized that he was not by my side. I groggily got out of bed, and made my way out of his bedroom to try and gather myself to leave. When I walked into the living room he was standing in front of the T.V. watching a football game (heaven knows how I let myself get involved with a man who watches sports??!). He looked at me, and we both smiled and ran to each other…still a bit squiffy from the previous night…”Don’t ever leave me like that again…Where did you go?” I pleaded like a supplicant child. He turned to me like a proud little boy, and admirably displayed the fruits of his last hour’s labor, “I did my laundry!” And we giggled, like school children being naughty, and he kissed me, with the guilt of a five year old who steals kisses he is not supposed to be enjoying.

“Let’s have sex!” he giggled and lead me to the bedroom. 

“No. I can’t. I have to go. But I do want to kiss you a little bit more.”

We made ourselves comfortable on the couch, and he caressed me, kissed me with a hint of sweetness and naivete. Touch is love. And I felt loved, as we laughed in between our innocent stolen drunken kisses. 

I begrudgingly pulled myself away from him. He followed me to the door and helped fixed myself. And out of nowhere, he turned to me as if he had a terribly important secret to tell and let out, “You have…yarn in your hair!” as he giggled in utter disbelief at the prospect of a girl ever doing such a strange thing as putting some yarn in her hair. 

I had forgotten about it and felt for it in my disheveled morning mop. “Oh, yea! I couldn’t find any ribbon…So i used some yarn!”

And still more incredulously than before he asked in the most endearingly sincere voice, “Can I keep it?”

The genuine innocence of his words caught me off guard; and sobered me up. I realized that in lieu of the man that I had spent the evening with, stood an achingly endearing boy, resplendent in my eyes, cloaked in the beauty of his sincerity. I loved him then. In that moment. 

I gave him the yarn from my hair. He took it and smelled it; kissed me, and whispered in my ear that he loved me…we giggled some more, and I returned the sentiments. I was so happy that morning. In contrast, I woke up this morning, having realized where I was, remembering where I had been, and wishing that I could be there again; and all at once I felt the weight of my sadness having realized that what I wish for is a memory that I already have and can’t get back. And the coldness of the evening is amplified by the faint memory that once upon a time, I felt the comfort of a little warmth…

I suppose some wishes are best left unsaid, and some memories are best let go…