A Story Among Stories — By Mandy Forlenza

artwork by Lucy Jackson

I saw you among shirts and ties and decided you were my favorite. My pick. I had a mutual friend introduce us. She had previously joked about setting me up with a doctor at her event. I don’t recall what we chatted about, but I remember you in a light blue shirt, thin silver framed glasses and a drink in your hand, ice melting. We would joke later about our meeting. I would say that I made it happen. You’d immediately chime in that you had tried to say hello earlier, but I ignored you and spoke to your friend instead. I never remembered what was true.

You gave me your phone number and email address on the back of my business card, written in pencil. I gave you my phone number and email too. You waited well over a week before calling. I was lazing around on my couch when we spoke for the first time. You mentioned you had been on call at the hospital and then went to visit your parents. There wasn’t any time to call. I accepted this as a new adventure and listened to the first of many explanations into the world of becoming a doctor.  

I don’t recall how it was arranged, but we met Saturday during the day, at a coffee house on Green Street. You mentioned you would be with friends and asked me to join. I arrived and met you in the back with four other people. You were sharing stories I knew nothing about. I smiled sweetly from time to time. A new friend joined us. He had just flown in, luggage in tow. He immediately produced pictures of a New Year’s Eve event where just everyone had been. The table laughed and I escaped to the bathroom. I immediately wondered what everyone would say about me while I was gone.  

We decided on Thai food two doors down for dinner. I don’t remember much of the conversation, where I sat, or even all the guests (there were many). I had become part of this night out and joined you as we drove to your friend’s apartment in Riverdale to drop off his luggage.

I remember you making sure I was in the front seat of the car, next to you. I remember your friend’s apartment building with ancient elevators and narrow hallways. I remember the two large Labradors greeting us and the walls covered in paintings. You turned out the lights to show me how the art glowed in black lighting. It was beautiful, I will admit. Even the aquarium in the large black entertainment center looked like artwork in the auspicious lighting. It was a typical man’s apartment, with old couches and the overuse of black.

We left, again I sat in the front seat. Your friend made a comment that he felt as if he was seated behind Felicity. We all laughed. It was August and my hair was full of curls and frizz. Off we went into the night, back to Manhattan. We sipped drinks overlooking the dance floor at a bar I had never been to.

We were finally alone. You produced a pack of cigarettes, and I handed you a candle to light one. We sat on the ratty velvet couch with club lighting glaring over our faces. This was the first time I spoke to just you, without trying to remember names and laughing along to stories. We were alone and you stayed on your side of the couch.

I had wondered at the coffee house with the large crowd of friends, was I a date or just a new buddy? What did you invite me for?

We left. I don’t know what time. You wanted to show me the rooftop at your apartment in Brooklyn, and we could have more drinks. I agreed. Together, we looked up to the stars. I listened to stories of parties you’d thrown and the beautiful sunsets on the roof. There was no kiss under that beautiful summer sky. I pictured you leaning in a dozen times. You didn’t. I just kept smiling to hide my need to feel something.

Back downstairs in your apartment, we looked at photo albums and CDs on your tiny black foam couch. In that ordinary moment, you finally kissed me. I felt a sense of relief. I knew that you were interested in more than buddy chat and coffee.  

I stayed over with my smoky hair and a day-turned-night outfit. We spent the next day together, too. We went for breakfast, did a little shopping, and went for lunch. It was dark when you drove me home to Queens. As late as it was, we decided to play pool before ending the second night.

A full twenty-four-hour date. A proper way to start something that took on a life of its own and lasted more than three years. Maybe you don’t remember, but a few weeks into dating, I whispered “I have a feeling I was meant to know you for a long time”.  

I am sure I scared you then, but I was right.

Mandy Forlenza’s writing lived quietly for years, scribbled on bar napkins and scraps of paper throughout her twenties and thirties in New York City. Following a milestone birthday, she began shaping her work into a poetry book. She now lives in lower Westchester, where she gardens, is raising a spirited nine-year-old, and owns a vintage rental company. Her first book, Boys Back Then will be released later this year.