A brunette, with no make-up, wearing a summer dress
and runners, literally bounces down each step to a group of waiting friends. They are laughing, dancing and ready to tug at her arms. Without the complications of boys, this group of girlfriends are ready to have a swinging evening of jazz
. In and around the lake front, between the pop tent stages and on the patches of manicured grass, they plan to dance through the night.“More volume on the stage monitors. A little less feedback on the center stage speakers.”
I used to have friends to party with, but we lost touch ever since I started seeing Liz. At first it wasn’t noticeable, then one day I see them, roaring with laughter on a hot summer day in a trendy uptown patio sharing a pitcher of beer. At that moment, I realize how fast time has escaped me. Liz refers to them as delayed pubescent teenagers. My friends and I are in our late twenties. Liz is 31 but doesn’t look a day over twenty five. We’ve been together almost nine months. Over that period we’ve completed all the dating rituals, from art galleries to Indy car races. She comes from a good family and still has her original set of parents under the same roof. I can not say the same. She has a decent job and is content to climb the corporate ladder one rung at a time. As an onlooker, I would say she is content with her life.
“Hey, you ready?” She reappears out of nowhere.
“Yeah, just let me go pee.”
“What were you doing all this time? Why didn’t you go when I went?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out, suddenly my logic seemed stupid.
“Well, hurry up, I’ll be over there,” she said pointing to an array of vendors, kiosks and street merchants.”
“Just wait, I’m not going to take long.” I exclaim, not wanting to go chasing her through knock off purses, one-of-a-kind crafts, hippie clothing, and inner healing jewelry.
She shoos me off while giving me an annoyed look. When I return, I find her conversing with a fashionable European man. He must be five or six inches taller than me, which means he absolutely towers over her. They appear to know each other. She sees me from the corner of her eye and finishes the conversation in the usual swanky manner a girl does when she’s flirting.
“Who’s that?”
“He’s my ex-boyfriends roommate.”
Enough said, I wasn’t interested to hear anymore.
“He quit his job to be a photographer. I’ve seen some of his work and it’s amazing. He has his first showing next week. I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling, I mean, how exciting is that, I would be so nervous!”
“Wow,” I say unconvincingly. “Not too many people can chase after their dream. I know I couldn’t. Security can be over-rated. So much of life is sacrificed for little bits of stability. I hope it works out for him.” My best politically correct answer with a personal touch.
Liz’s attention is outside. She hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. There are rows of vendors pushing merchandise trying to make their money at the event. This is the big night, Saturday night. All profits and losses are determined in the next few hours. Liz heads towards the commotion drawn by all the bustling. I am expected to follow.
“Lizzy” I gently call out to her, nipping at her elbow with my hand. She pulls her arm away. She’s not a cuddly girl. When we sleep we are at opposite edges of the bed.
[To Be Continued...]
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