I suppose everyone in New York has some place that becomes a symbol of their alternate life, their dream life. Maybe it’s the theater in Times Square where you’re desperate to perform, or the Brooklyn dive bar you’re saving up to buy. The Van Woolsey is mine.
Whenever I walk past the building, I imagine what it would be like to live there, in one of those multimillion-dollar apartments I could never afford on my teacher’s salary. And I could sit on the bench by the fountain and reminisce about all the fantastic places I’ve traveled and the people I’ve met and the books I’ve read and the students I’ve taught. And I could look up from the bench and see into my apartment, a few floors up, where my imaginary husband and children are cooking a dinner together that I can smell when the breeze is just right, carrying the aromas from the open window.
I feel foolish and shallow whenever I think about it, especially now that everything’s changed and the future seems so much more fragile. And I know it’s really such a boring dream, not particularly unique. But it’s not really about the money or the opulence or the appearance of success. That version of myself who lives in the Van Woolsey has everything settled on the inside, too. She looks at her life and simply feels satisfied. She doesn’t need to spend time on fantasies anymore, because she’s already living in one.
And I suppose that’s why I can’t look at my string, because as long as I haven’t looked, then I can still imagine the day when I’ll be that woman on the bench in the courtyard of the Van Woolsey. Any of the daydreams might still come true.
—A
Nina
On Sunday night, while Maura was attending her weekly group, Nina asked Amie to join her for dinner at a new restaurant downtown.
Her sister was running late, so Nina settled at a table by herself. She had read about the restaurant’s opening, a few days prior, and recognized the story: the short-stringer chef who had been denied a loan, and the sibling who crowdsourced the money. She had seen it first on String Theory, back when she was checking the website regularly.
Nina hadn’t visited the site in quite some time, nor had she read any of the other blogs or forums, despite new ones cropping up daily. She had stopped her searching rather abruptly after her fight with Maura, fending off the pull of the online sirens.
Nina noticed a paper flyer taped to the menu at her table, advertising for an open mic night next week, and in the back of the dining room she spotted a small platform and a microphone stand. She couldn’t help but imagine Maura up on that stage, her face partially obscured by the microphone though still obviously beautiful, performing an enthusiastic, if slightly sharp, homage to Amy Winehouse. It was hard to believe that more than two years had passed since Nina was sitting at the bar with Sarah, her college roommate, and first spotted Maura.
The karaoke bar had been Sarah’s idea. Whenever she visited New York, she liked to relive the musical theater days of her youth—when her crowning achievement was being cast as Adelaide in her high school’s Guys and Dolls—by attending a Broadway show and singing karaoke downtown.
After Maura bowed off the stage, Sarah insisted that Nina introduce herself. “You should go talk to her. She’s pretty.”
“I can’t do that,” Nina demurred.
“Why not?” Sarah asked.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t even know if she’s gay.”
“Oh please, only lesbians sing ‘Valerie.’”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Nina. “It’s just a crowd-pleaser. And it was originally written by a man.”
Sarah just rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to fact-check everything.”
“Well, even if she is gay,” Nina said, “I don’t go up to strangers at bars like you do.”
“Are you saying I’m a slut?” Sarah feigned offense.
“No! I’m saying you have confidence. Something I’ve always had less of.”
“You’re confident enough to tear apart any piece of writing with that red pen of yours. You certainly did it to my papers often enough.”
“That’s different. It’s work.”
“This is work, too,” Sarah said. “And eighty percent of success is showing up.” A sip of her vodka cranberry punctuated the thought.
Though they hadn’t seen each other in six months, since Sarah’s last trip in from Los Angeles, they easily fell into their old rhythm, with Sarah doling out romantic advice and Nina wondering whether to listen.