I took my phone out, opening the virtual cuckoo clocks, trying to be somewhere else. I was confronted with a slideshow of a female friend’s dead houseplants, meant to symbolize inadequacy within reason. Amos didn’t have a clue what it was like to be a woman in New York, unsure if she’s with the right person. Even if I did want to up and leave Boots, dating was not a taste I’d acquired. The older a woman got, the more diligent she had to become about not burdening men with the gory details of her past, lest she scare them off. That was the name of the game: Don’t Scare the Men. Those who encouraged you to indulge in your impulse to share, largely did so to expedite a decision. They knew they were on trial too, but our courtrooms had more lenient judges. These men quizzed you about every hurt and humiliation until you were so flattered by the inquiry, you forgot that quizzes are made to be failed. This process was made worse by the garb of flirtation.
Vadis called it the “millennial music rider.”
“Just tell them the worst thing that’s ever happened to you and get it over with.”
“What is this, the McCarthy hearings? I’m not naming names.”
“It’s your own name, dummy. Your own trauma.”
“What if the answer is ‘this conversation’？”
“Well, maybe don’t say that.”
Whereas with every last man I knew, even Zach, the full trajectory of their lives became more appealing with age. Every gash added up to something intricate and alluring. Heartache was something that happened to them, not something they made happen. Feminism failed us on this point. Women are meant to emerge into each chapter as if from cocoons, divine creatures with a smattering of flaws. Just look at what drivel comes out in the wash: slideshows of dead houseplants.
By the time Amos returned, the man with the book had left. More people had arrived, seeming to have come here with the express purpose of discussing an absentee friend’s social infractions. Amos had a hangdog look on his face, the look of someone who’d recently confronted a bar bathroom mirror. He was wearing a button-down shirt that gaped at his stomach, exposing a keyhole of belly.
“We can stop talking about this if it upsets you,” he offered.
“Good,” I said, “but not because it upsets me. Because it will cannibalize everything and I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like I don’t know anything about you. Tell me about your life.”
“I have no life.”
“Tell me about the new book, then.”
“I’m sick of hearing myself talk about the book. All I do is summarize my own opinions as if I read them somewhere. It’s hard to talk about the thing you’re supposed to love when you don’t feel connected to it anymore. Maybe you can advise me.”
“My advice would be to trust the process.”
“Tell me what’s good about him.”
“Amos.”
“Tell me his name.”
“No.”
“I’m going to find out eventually.”
“So you can find out eventually.”
“Do I know him?”
“No.”
“Then tell me his name.”
“Amos.”
“Come on.”
“I don’t want to hear you say his name!”
The bartender looked at us, waiting to see if there was more where that came from. It was at once the most protective thing I’d said about Boots and the most revealing thing I’d said about my leftover feelings for Amos. I pulled at the edge of my cocktail napkin until it broke apart.
“He’s considerate. People love him. He’s weirdly tall. You’d hate him.”
“What’s weird?”
“Like six-three.”
“That’s not weird.”
“He’s a good listener. With some people you can see the little kid inside them, raising their hands in the air while the teacher is talking. He’s not like that. He’s smart without being esoteric. I’ve never looked at him and had to ask what he’s thinking.”
“Is that maybe because he isn’t thinking anything?”
“He went to Brown.”
“Gross.”
“He’s from Illinois. He blows glass.”
“He must be great at going down on you.”
“He makes sculptures, if you must know. But he also runs his own business, selling glassware to restaurants.”
“An Ivy League educated Willy Loman.”
“I don’t know why I’m defending him to you. He does Per Se.”