Who do you call on a Saturday night, after drinking a bottle of fake champagne… alone? A whole bottle; not like you at all! You, who always stop at two or three… glasses, and put the rest in the fridge with an inverted silver spoon inserted in the neck. You flip through the phone with a miniature carousel spinning gesture, names of ex-boyfriends jump from the screen. It’s too pathetic to call ex-boyfriends when drunk. You know, having been inconvenienced, on the receiver of such calls. The tailor who called from the cigar bar, full of cognac; who didn’t care to ask, “how are you, how’s your life, are you seeing someone new?” No! He forced his fantasy through the wires (or the ether as the phone is now transmitted) asking for an invitation. Even if I were single, how inviting is that!? No matter, most of these ex-boyfriends live too far flung to beg an immediate, “Come over tonight.” Had I been single, the tailor might have been a welcome guest, when sober, and not reeking of charcoaled Cuban tobacco. Had he called, not from the bar down the street, but from the other side of the world, we might have made an appointment for his return, when he would presumably be reasonable sober.
There is one fellow far, far away, in a time zone appropriate for taking friendly phone calls. He’s quite married. We still share a mutual unconditional love, as we have since we first discovered love together so long ago that it’s as if we’ve been reincarnated through many lifetimes since. I get his voice mail. How friendly is my message. It sounds so like the messages he used to leave me, back when he was drinking too much… I believe… so I’ve been told. He was always a pleasant drunk, I never noticed it was too much, not even when he retired early, leaving me to stay up, entertaining his children. None of this is like it sounds; this was long after our romance had turned into something else. I was never really his type, as it turns out. Many years later, it occurred to me that he’s not really my type either. But there was a look he had in eyes when he looked at me, and ever since whenever I see this look in a man’s eyes, I fall frog in the throat in love. I feel like I’m in love with whichever new man I’m tongue tied over, but I recognize the pattern and always wonder if I’m not projecting a false love in remembrance of the first love that was torn so excruciating, so long ago.
This is not why I’m alone on Saturday night drinking fake champagne to the point of inebriation. It’s just a coincidence.