New York Love Story (Guess How Much I Love You!) - Episode 1

Life is full of unpredictable drama.

　Just looking at Manhattan, New York, where I live, there is so much drama packed into it.

　Love, betrayal, tears, s*x, regret — finding words like these in life shouldn’t be too difficult for a single man living in the city.

　Political marriage, inheritance, and murder disguised as a boating accident. It’s too early to think that a story lacks drama because it doesn’t have these words on the list. For example, the Indian taxi driver is driving this taxi now. What if he started talking about his life here? He might talk about the small joys of everyday life, or he might say something surprising that you can’t imagine. You might find something that you can empathize with, or maybe even cry along with him.

　Everyone’s life is dramatic. What may not interest others more than a passing “wow” may be a very big deal to the person involved, making them work harder than Romeo and Juliet and suffering more than Hamlet. Love, betrayal, tears, s*x, regret. These are themes that have been used repeatedly since Shakespeare’s time, and will continue to do so as long as there are men and women in this world — or rather, as long as there are people in this world. These keywords will always remain fresh, as you can see from FOX’s new production.

　There is a reason why I changed the word “men and women” to “people” earlier. Because dramas do not only occur between men and women. If you are only concerned with the “drama between men and women”, you may end up being swept away from you. I learned this for myself a little later, while I was enjoying a peaceful time in the back seat of a taxi. To others, it was a trivial event, but to the person involved, it would be like Shakespeare to write this. This is just one of the many dramas that exist in Manhattan.

　A taxi with an Indian goddess sticker pulls up on the edge of the West Village.

“It’s probably around here. Please stop at that corner,” I called to the driver and got out of the taxi.

　Few New Yorkers still think of this area, affectionately known as Meat Market, as a meatpacking district, but it has been transforming into a fashion and art district for some time now.

　While I was wandering along the brick-paved road, looking at the map in my hand, I soon found the shop I was looking for. The exterior was still a warehouse. It was a club-style bar, a staple of the Meat Market, with only the interior renovated.

　Carefully descending the dimly lit stairs to the basement, I showed my invitation to a skinhead man and handed over my jacket and luggage. I pushed open the heavy iron door, and a commotion rang out from inside. Reggae music was playing softly, but most of the noise was people talking. The lighting was bright, which was unusual for a club, and the floor was bustling with people. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the place was packed, but thanks to the ceiling that spanned three floors, it didn’t feel too cramped.

“Dean!”

　When I turned to face the person who called me, I saw a man dressed in leopard print running towards me, making a strange sound like a tropical parrot. I quickly looked up. Last year, there was mistletoe just above the entrance, so I was welcomed with a baptism of kisses from countless gay men.

“Merry Christmas, Dean. Can I hug you while holding that glass?”

“Merry Christmas, Roman. It’s okay.”

　Roman hugged me tightly while holding a glass of champagne. When I let go of him, I was astonished once again by his eccentric outfit. The tight-fitting leopard print jumpsuit had a V-shaped opening at the chest, exposing not only his chest but also his stomach (including his belly button). The huge, pointed triangular collar reminded me of Elvis of the past, and the Hermes belt wrapped around his waist was not fulfilling its original function at all.

“I thought it was Freddie Mercury.”

“That’s a fantastic compliment. Of course, I’m allowed to take it.”

“Is the dress code leopard print?”

“Not just leopards. Tigers and pythons, too. This year’s theme is ‘Christmas in the Jungle.’ So, take off that tie quickly! Be my Tarzan!”

“Is that what you tell everyone?” I said with a wry smile.

“Oh, not to everyone. I only tell the good guys.”

　He was smiling. His almond-colored skin reminded me of oil-polished mahogany. He had attractive hazelnut-colored eyes and thick, dark blonde hair. This was the host of the party, Roman Destiny. He was so handsome he could pass for a model, but the way he spoke and acted was 120% proof that he was gay.

“Roman’s ‘good guy code’ is pretty strict. I’ve only said that to you today.”

　I turned around and saw my friend, Paul, standing there with a gentle smile on his face.

“Champagne? I have stronger ones too.”

“It’s a Christmas party. Let’s start with champagne.”

　He took a tall glass from the waiter’s tray and took a sip from the sparkling golden liquid.

“You checked above the door as soon as you came in, didn’t you?” Paul laughs mischievously.

“Yeah, I had a terrible time last year.”

“Roman said we can’t use the same tricks this year. Want to dress up as Tarzan? There’s a costume in the back.”

“Not at all. I’ll leave that to someone tougher than me.”

“I think Roman wants to see you.”

　Roman suddenly heard what was happening and shouted from the other side.

“It’s not just me, Paul! Be honest!”

　Paul chuckled and shrugged, “Hell ears.”

　Although I’ve been saying it’s Christmas for a while now, it’s already the beginning of November, so it’s already more than a month before the real Christmas.

“Maybe we’re the only ones having a Christmas party this early,” he said, picking up a colorfully wrapped chocolate from the pile on the table and popping it into his mouth. When he bit into it, a thick, sweet liquid gushed out. As he savored it, he poured the champagne down his throat. Chocolate and champagne must be one of the best combinations in the world. An exquisite harmony comparable to that of ginger and Fred.

“Roman will be going to Europe in December, and he’s excited to have a real Christmas in Italy,” said Paul.

“So this is pagan style?”

　A man wearing nothing but zebra print underwear passes by. His body is well-trained and impressive. He doesn’t look like a herbivore at all.

　I’ve been attending this strange party since last year. It was Paul who introduced me to Roman. The calm Paul and the boisterous Roman. They seem to be residents of different planets, but the only thing they have in common is that they are both hairdressers and gay.

　What kind of image comes to mind when you hear “gay hairdresser”? The carnivorous zebra? The leopard-print Roman? At least he’s not like Paul Copeland.

　It’s hard to describe my friend Paul’s appearance. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Not spectacularly handsome, but not average either. Not overly feminine, but not overly masculine either. Paul is so ordinary that he seems odd in this crowd, where individuality is expected. With his kindly features and easy-going, guy-next-door vibe, he attracts not only gay men but also straight women. For a moment, the women rejoice that a man who could impress their parents is still alive in Manhattan, but it always takes them a while to realize that there is no such thing as a fairy tale after all.

　What? What about me? Well, let’s stop talking about other people and talk about myself. My name is Dean Kelly. I have black hair and blue-gray eyes. I go to gay parties, but I’m straight. I’m 28, the same age as Paul, but next to him, with his boyish features, I look older. Our best years so far have been when we were mistaken for 22 and 36. Maybe the hair on the tip of my chin is what’s making me look older, but even if I shave it off, I don’t think I’ll be able to beat Paul’s record of 22. I’m one of the few single men still left in Manhattan, but I can’t decide whether I’m the kind of man who would impress his parents. I’ll let the ladies decide. Take the women who approach me now. What kind of man do they think I am, with a smile on their face and a cocktail glass in their hand?

“Hi Dean and Paul. Merry Christmas.”

　The girl who called out to me was named Chris. She was an intelligent, straight woman with a long face. Many women attended Roman’s parties. If it were just a gay gathering, I would have felt uncomfortable, even though Paul was there. Men and women, gays and straights. Roman’s style is to invite both equally. That’s why I was eligible to attend.

“Merry Christmas, Chris.”

　I raised my champagne glass to eye level and greeted him. A petite woman was standing next to Chris. If I remember correctly, this was the first time we’d met. Her eyes were wide and round. She looked like a heroine from a Disney movie. As I stared at the strange woman, Chris smiled and spoke.

“This is Rita. She’s a friend from work. Rita, he just said…”

“pole?”

　The petite heroine said as she looked at me. Immediately, Chris burst out laughing.

“No! That’s Dean! Paul’s over here!”

“Oh no! Is that so? Because…”

　They both look at each other, then lean against each other and burst out laughing. Is it that funny to mistake me for Paul? Or is he just really drunk already? Chris finally catches his breath and starts apologizing.

“…Sorry, but I was just saying to Rita, ‘See those two guys standing there? They’re both nice, but one of them doesn’t like girls, so it’s no use going after him. His name is Paul.” Then she starts laughing again.

“It’s Chris’s fault! For not telling me properly!” Rita’s face was red, and she slapped Chris on the shoulder.

　They said “hi” and “oh well” and disappeared back into the crowd. No “bye” or “excuse me.” A few feet away, I saw Rita and Chris doubled over in laughter. This must be their “funniest party story of the year.” Just by standing there, I was able to make them laugh.

“… Is it for entertainment? ‘Who’s gay?'” he says to Paul, shrugging. He chuckles.

“Seriously… I wish they would hand out armbands or something starting next year so that people can immediately understand their religion.”

“Roman doesn’t like that categorization. There are gays and straights here, but he doesn’t want them to get to know each other because of preconceived notions.”

“Prejudice. That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it? What do you think? Do I look gay?”

“I wonder…” Paul folded his arms and stared at me intently. His professional assessment made me straighten up. After thinking for a moment, he gently reached out and touched my beard with his index finger.

“Yeah… that and those perfectly shaped eyebrows make him look a bit gay.”

“If your eyebrows are connected and you’re wearing a cowboy hat, will people see you straight?”

“That’s fine too. But the girls will probably run away.”

　Seeing me groan, Paul started laughing again.

“Why not? If you ask us, we’d say you’re too handsome to keep it straight.”

“Thanks. It’s an honor.”

　Judging from the previous situation, Chris was probably trying to introduce me to Rita. If Rita hadn’t mistaken me for Paul, things might have gone smoothly.

　As someone trying to find someone to spend Christmas with (not now, but the “real Christmas” next December), meeting a cute girl would be great. But even though I’m waiting with open arms, I’ve been misunderstood like that quite often. I’ve been mistaken for one of my kind by gay men before, but I didn’t know that women saw me that way, too.

　So that was my first impression of him: that he was one of the rare single men remaining in Manhattan, followed by the words “He’s gay, though.” I’m disappointed that I missed my chance because of such an unfounded misunderstanding. I’ll suggest to Roman that they adopt armbands from next year’s party.

　As I swallowed my reluctance and ate my nori roll, the sound of a Chinese drum echoed through the hall. Lit torches burned on either side of the stage, signaling the start of the “Best of the Jungle” competition. Regardless of whether it violated New York City fire codes, this was Roman’s party. Last Christmas, he said,

“I hate parties where you can’t even see each other in the dark, and you hear gross trance music! ‘Have fun and be wholesome!’ That’s the motto of Roman Destiny!”

　Whether a party where men in leopard-print underwear walk around is healthy is up for debate, but there’s no doubt that this is a fun place. The company I work for sells and exhibits art, mainly paintings. Although we deal in art, the content of our work is by no means artistic and is no different from an ordinary company that runs on profits. In an environment where making profits is the priority, many people have acquired the habit of “having to win at everything.” Some gamblers get excited and upset when they calculate the annual income of their opponents from the suits they are wearing. Because he played too many sports in his school days, he is a macho man who is not satisfied until he has crushed his opponents, even at billiards in a bar. I am already easily disliked by my peers because of my handsomeness. Men who are eager to impress the women around them will try their best to beat their opponents, whether it be darts or billiards. “Friends are meant to be friends,” is something we learn in elementary school, but how on earth are we supposed to “play together in a friendly manner” with these kids who have forgotten all that by the time they leave university?

　On the other hand, I don’t feel any of that anger from my gay friends. They are less ideologically conscious, have freer ways of thinking, are subtly considerate of others, and are just the right amount of eccentric (though some of them are a bit too much). I feel very relaxed when I’m with my gay friends, including Roman and Paul. If I hadn’t met them, I might have been perceived as a sissy in the “macho wars” and would have lived alone, with a goldfish as my best friend.

“New Yorkers are lonely,” Roman says. “Capote, Warhol. They throw parties, you know? They can’t help it.”

“To make sure you’re not alone?”

　When I asked him that, Roman smiled, showing his beautiful teeth, and said, “It’s not about ‘you’re not alone.’ It’s about understanding that you’re not the only one who’s lonely.”

　Many New Yorkers are indeed plagued by the disease of loneliness. Manhattan alone has a population of over 1.5 million, so it must be extremely difficult to find an environment where you can be alone, but we still say, “Oh! Loneliness!”

　The number of participants at the party has increased every year, perhaps because there are more lonely New Yorkers, or perhaps because Roman’s network is growing. In any case, the number of participants continues to grow, the venue gets bigger every year, and in proportion to that, the party gradually moves further south.

“If we keep going down like this, we’ll end up partying in Brooklyn eventually, right?”

“It seems we were able to rent it cheaply because it’s not the season yet,” said Paul. “Hey, there are some delicious tacos over there. Have you tried them yet?” he asked, pointing over there with his chopsticks.

“No, not yet.”

“Jimmy did a great job. It’s amazing, and you can choose from ten different sauces.”

“That’s great. Let’s get some tacos!”

“Let’s get a taco!”

　This phrase comes from a Tarantino movie. Once, when Paul was cutting my hair, we started talking about this movie, and while he was cutting my hair (or while I was cutting my hair), Paul and I started imitating Harvey Keitel’s cool lines. Since then, we can’t help but say this line whenever we see a taco.

　Paul puts his arm around mine and leads me to the taco table. At this moment, I become aware of his sexual orientation. A straight man would never treat a male friend this way. But Paul never does anything that bothers me. Even while I was being kissed under the mistletoe, he just smiled with a cocktail in his hand. Some straight people are abnormally afraid of gay people, but I think they are probably afraid of becoming gay themselves. I am not gay, and I have no reason to be afraid of my friends, especially if they are sensible friends.

　I spent the next few hours voting for “Best of the Jungle” (I voted for the carnivorous zebra, in tribute to the fact that it must be quite difficult to maintain all that muscle) and watching some fun dance performances.

“Are you going home?”

　As I was saying goodbye and kissing my friends, Paul called out to me.

“Oh, you’re coming too?”

“Umm, what should I do? I was thinking of helping you clean up…”

　As he looked around the venue, Roman, who happened to be passing by, called out to him kindly.

“It’s okay, Paul. You want to go home with Dean, right? You helped me get ready. That’s enough for today. Go home together,” she said, fluttering her right hand like a butterfly.

　Paul smiled shyly and said, “If we go home together, the taxi fare will be half.”

　We collected our coats and luggage from the cloakroom and headed out onto the West Side in the middle of the night, where the cold wind from the East River buffeted us.

“Ugh, it’s cold!” Even though I wrapped my arms around myself, it didn’t do much to protect me from the cold.

“It’s cold today. Let’s quickly grab a taxi,” Paul said, and started walking quickly.

　Paul and I live in the same place – not the same room, but we happen to be renting the same apartment.

　We first met about a year and a half ago, when my girlfriend at the time told me, “I know a really good hairdresser.”

　The Alexander Abel, where Paul works, has the image of a place for rich housewives, and I found it a little embarrassing. However, when I went there with her, it wasn’t as intimidating as I thought, and the “really good hairdresser” she recommended was the same age, so we had a great conversation. After going there a few times, we had become quite close, and by the time we figured out that we lived in the same apartment because we frequented the same Starbucks. I broke up with the girlfriend who introduced me to Paul, but our friendship continued, and I made many friends through Paul.

　He is not sensitive about fashion or trends, and he speaks normally. Paul is always natural, so you would never know he is gay unless you told him. I have never had any discriminatory feelings towards gays. However, I assumed he was straight, so I was a little surprised when I found out he was not. If he had just said “I’m gay” beforehand, I would not have been so shocked when I saw him kissing a man at the entrance of the apartment.

　It was around Easter season, about two months after I met Paul. I happened to witness a love scene between my friends in the entrance hall of our apartment. I was surprised by the unexpected event, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, I ended up staring at them. Realizing that he was watching, Paul looked a little embarrassed and moved away from the man, introducing his partner in the love scene as “my boyfriend.” It was then and there that I first realized that “Paul is gay.”

　My boyfriend, a man in his forties who wore a smart camel jacket, continued to drop by the apartment from time to time. He was a cigar smoker and would leave his scent in the elevator, so much so that I learned to detect his arrival by smell.

　The smell of cigars that had been around Paul for a while disappeared just before Christmas, and at a party last year, Paul was free again. At that party, Paul came out to me with another truth.

“That wasn’t the first time we met.”

　Paul muttered as he poured himself a glass at the bar.

“When you came into the store, I knew right away. I was like, ‘Oh, you’re from the same apartment building.'”

　Surprised (though not as surprised as I was when I witnessed the kissing scene), I asked him:

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? It was much later that we found out we lived in the same place.”

“Because it seems suspicious. Saying to a new customer, ‘I know you. I’ve met you a few times at the apartment.”

“You’ve met a few times?… I never noticed.”

“We were conscious of this, like, ‘This is a cool person who lives here.'” Paul raised one eyebrow and smiled meaningfully.

　I have no prejudice against gays, but it still felt strange to find out that men secretly thought I was “cool” without my knowledge.

“If you were gay, I’d say, ‘Be my boyfriend,'” Paul said, laughing and taking a sip from his glass.

　It was the only time he ever said something like that, and he had been drinking quite a bit at the time, so it may have been a slip of the tongue.

　Although he confessed to me over drinks, nothing other than friendship ever developed between us. I never thought of anything else. After all, I’m not gay. My identity is clear. That’s why I can be comfortable with Paul.

　A taxi arrives at an apartment in Midtown. After saying hello to the doorman, Henry (I almost said “Merry Christmas!”), I get in the elevator and press the “8” and “15” buttons. When it stops on the 8th floor, Paul gets off the elevator.

“Well, goodnight,” said Paul.

“Good night,” I said.

　The door closed silently, separating us as we stood opposite each other.

“Life is full of drama,” I said at the beginning, but I’m sure that you, the astute readers, are reading this far and wondering, “What is in this?” Yes, the drama so far has been quite ordinary. There is no divorce, no inheritance, no murder disguised as a boating accident. There are no seriously ill people being carried into the emergency hospital on stretchers, no sisters being abducted by aliens, no talking cars or horses. It’s a very ordinary and peaceful world.

　Just before getting off the elevator on the 15th floor, I realized I hadn’t said “Merry Christmas” to Paul.

　Well, it’s okay, there’s still some time until the actual Christmas, so I can save the Christmas greetings for the real thing ─── Or so I thought, but it seems I was underestimating the script for next week’s episode.

　Even if you are the main character in a drama, you never know what will happen next.

“Stay tuned for next week!”

　As the drama increases and the characters’ struggles grow, this greeting becomes more meaningful to the audience.

“Stay tuned for next week!”

　I can’t imagine there could be a more cruel greeting for someone at the centre of it all…

　Once a month, I get my hair cut at Paul’s.

　I greet Barry, the doorman at the hair salon, and chat with Dora, an elderly woman helping out at the luggage locker. The staff at Alexander Arbel are brisk and efficient. The store is quiet, yet lively. It’s a pleasant place to be in, where professionals work with pride.

　The store’s customers are mostly upper-class middle-aged women, with a few young girls who want to look like celebrities. There are very few male customers. None today. I go into the anteroom and put on a long black gown. I look at myself in the mirror and check my whole body. I look exactly like “Darth Vader.” From upper-class ladies to cute girls, all the customers in this store are forced to become Vader, and the scene is quite surreal and funny. I once told the staff member Alicia how strange the scene was, but it seemed to her that it was not something to laugh at, and she just gave me a strange look. Of course, Paul found it funny.

“Hi Dean. How are you?”

“It’s the same, Kate.”

　As one of the few regular male customers, all the staff knew my name (and many other things as well). A stocky black man caught sight of me and exclaimed, “Oh!”

“Hello, Douglas.”

“It’s been a while. Last month, when you came, it was on a day off, so please wait a bit,” he said, pointing his index finger next to his face, just like a mother would.

“Paul, I’m your favorite customer,” Douglas said to Paul, walking to the back of the store. “Who would you like to be the salesperson?” he didn’t even need to ask. I was “Paul’s customer.” And a “favorite customer.” Scenes like this happened often in my junior high school days. “Cathy! Look, Dean’s here!” or something like that. Even though we weren’t dating, everyone in the class officially recognized me as “Cathy’s Dean.” Of course, I was here to see Paul, and I wasn’t inconvenienced or dissatisfied with the way the store treated me. I just felt that Douglas’s way of speaking was a bit irritating.

　When I sat down in the styling chair, Annie, an apprentice, asked me, “What would you like to drink?” I ordered “Scotch.” She blushed and answered seriously, “We only have coffee, black tea, and herbal tea.”

“Customer, please don’t make fun of our valuable staff.” Paul, who had somehow come to stand behind me, looked at me through the mirror and smiled. “Would you like your usual coffee?”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” I said, looking at Annie.

“Yes, sir.” Annie blushed and went back inside.

“That means,” Paul said with a smile.

“She’s cute, that’s why.”

“Annie will be happy if you tell her. I love you.”

“You like her? You know, she’s barely spoken to me.”

“There are many different kinds of liking someone. I think it’s the same feeling as when you admire someone on TV.”

“Hmm… Then I guess I’ll ask you out on a date sometime.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s best to leave dreams as dreams.”

“What do you mean?”

　They drink the coffee that Annie has brought them and talk, with the rhythmic sound of Paul’s scissors playing in the background.

“I have tickets to the Chanticleer concert. Would you like to come with me?” asked Paul.

“Great, when?”

“Next Friday. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

　Scissors clanged in my ears.

“What about lunch?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Together?”

“I’m going out with Kate today. She just split up with her boyfriend and is feeling down.”

“I see.”

“Sorry”

“Okay.”

　The razor makes a low rustling noise at the nape of my neck.

“Are you at home tonight?” asked Paul.

“Yes, I am.”

“I want to return the DVD I borrowed. Can I come?”

“Yeah”

　Dining out, events, concerts, borrowing and lending DVDs. That’s pretty much how we interact.

“Are you going?” “Yes, I’m going.”

“Are you going?” “Sorry, I have another appointment.”

　Accepting or refusing is extremely simple, and I don’t mind at all if the other person prioritizes someone other than me. The relationship is equal, with zero vested interests. If there is any, it’s that I’m losing the ridiculously expensive tips here, but I balance it out by treating them to lunch or a movie.

“Bye, Dean.” Douglas waves cutely as she leaves. Am I the only one who thinks that gays and junior high school girls are somewhat similar? “Bye, Dean…Come on, Cathy! Dean’s going home!”… When I look at Douglas, I can’t help but remember the girls in junior high school. They love to gossip, they’re tight-knit, they’re always thinking about fashion, and they’re very interested in boys. If I told Roman, he might lecture me for being too prejudiced, but I don’t dislike those “junior high school girl” aspects of them. I think they’re kind of cute, and even like them.

　It may be because of my limited vocabulary that I use the same word to describe the shy Annie and the giant Douglas, but there is no harm in lumping the feelings I have about them together as “cute.” However, if I had to date either of them, I would choose Annie without any hesitation.

　Paul and I share a common interest in British comedy (although to be honest, I was the one who brainwashed him). A little after eight o’clock, Paul came over to my house with a Monty Python DVD in his hand.

“That was fun. Thank you,” Paul says, handing me the DVD at the entrance.

“Did they lend me the second season?”

“The one that features ‘Lupine Knight’?”

“No, the one about the adrift marines. Adrift in a boat… Oh no, if you didn’t see, I’d give away the punch line. What time is it today?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Come on up and see if you remember watching it.”

　Paul and I ended up spending the next few hours eating pizza delivery, watching Monty Python DVDs, and laughing like dumb high school kids (how silly is that for an adult? You’re right, that’s the Monty way).

　When men’s relationships are not tied to work or pride, they tend to be childish. My ex-girlfriend used to say, “Men are childish.” We men are indeed childish compared to women. But my relationship with Paul isn’t just about “Monty,” and this is where we’re a little different from dumb high school students. We talk about all sorts of things. About work, movies we’ve seen recently, politics, religion, and each other’s views on love. From silly stories to deep spiritual stories, a partner who can talk for hours like a girl is a rare thing. In terms of having a beer in hand, would the adjective “like a bored old man” be more appropriate than “like a girl”?

　When I went to visit my friend’s house in Chelsea, I saw this scene. Early in the morning, two old men were sitting on a bench in front of a general store. They were chatting with a backgammon board between them, and when I passed by in the evening, they were still playing the game, and it looked the same as in the morning. When I mentioned it to my friend, he said that the old men were there every day, and the backgammon pieces hardly moved. To them, the game was just an excuse, and in reality, they just wanted to chat with their friends for hours. Maybe “Monty” is like backgammon to us. I think I can understand how those old men feel. This is a comfortable place worth carrying over to old age. As we sipped imported beer, I imagined each other as we become 70 years old. I’m sure Paul would look 50, and I would look 100.

　The phone rang while the young old folks were chatting. I picked up the handset and moved to the next room. When I finished talking and returned, Paul asked me from the sofa, “Girlfriend?” I replied as I took some cheese out of the fridge. “Boo, you’re wrong. It was my mom. She asked, ‘What are you doing for Christmas?'”

“Mom, are you in Florida?”

“Yeah, I live alone in a giant condo.”

　My family consists of my mother and my older sister. My father died a few months after I was born. My mother retired early from work and is currently living in retirement in Florida. My older sister, Eileen, who is nine years older than I, married the owner of an insurance company and lives a luxurious life in a mansion in the suburbs and an apartment in the Upper West Side.

　As I peeled the red wax off the cheese with my hands and sliced ​​it into thin slices with a slicer, I asked him, “What about your mother?”

“I’m in Canada with my boyfriend.”

“Going to Canada for Christmas?”

“I’m visiting my mom and her boyfriend. Are you in Florida?”

“Irene goes with her family every year, but I don’t.”

“It’s closer than Canada.”

“I’m going to spend Christmas with my girlfriend… but I’m still finding her.” He puts the cheese on the table, picks it up with his fingers, puts it in his mouth, and sits down on the sofa.

“Then you’ve got one month left,” said Paul, stabbing the cheese with a toothpick and putting it in his mouth.

“If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to get a girlfriend for the day.”

“How serious are you?” Paul chuckles.

“What do you think about me? Time is fair, and you only have one month left.”

“If I don’t find one by Christmas, I won’t get a one-off boyfriend.”

“Okay. I’ll lend you the complete Monty Python collection, just in case.”

“No problem,” Paul said, laughing heartily. His laughter was delightful. Wanting to make him laugh even more, I approached him with an even more serious look on my face.

“I’ll also lend you ‘Ben-Hur’ and ‘Gone with the Wind.’ They’re both long novels, you know?”

“Does that mean I won’t have a boyfriend by Christmas?”

“You could also just rewatch the whole ‘Lord of the Rings’ series.”

“noisy”

“I also recommend the Discovery Channel. They have shows like The Mysterious Life of Honeybees.”

“Shut up, Dean Kelly.” Paul picked up an orange from the table and threw it at my stomach. He caught it and threw it back. Paul threw it again. I threw it back again.

“Don’t play with your food,” Paul said, laughing.

“You were the one who did it first!”

　The usual exchange. What if we each had a lover? My girlfriend and I, Paul’s boyfriend and Paul. It would surely be more fun. I don’t want to go on a trip just the two of us, but if we were all together, we could enjoy going to a beach resort or skiing. Not by Christmas, but sometime in the not-too-distant future…

　I looked at the clock and saw that it was past midnight. Time always flies when I’m with Paul.

　When I stretched my arms toward the ceiling, I heard a loud popping sound in my shoulder. Paul said, “That was a loud noise.”

“My body is out of shape. I’ve been busy with work lately and haven’t been to the gym.”

“Shall I give you a massage?”

“Eh? Ah… okay.”

　My voice had unexpectedly dropped in tone. It felt bad. But Paul didn’t seem offended.

“Massage may be a form of foreplay for you. Massage is just a massage. And mine is ‘shiatsu massage’. It’s not romantic at all.”

　Feeling a little embarrassed, I smiled shyly and offered, “If you weren’t tired, I’d be happy to do it.”

“Then lie down.”

　One of the reasons I get my hair cut at Alexander Abel is because of Paul’s massages. He’s so good at them, it’s incomparable to any massage I’ve had at a salon. If Paul were to lose his job (not likely), I could probably make a living as a masseuse.

　I took off my shirt and lay face down using a cushion as a pillow. Paul massaged my shoulders and back. It was a pretty forceful approach. He grabbed my shoulder blades and pulled them up. This is certainly not romantic at all. He slowly pulled, pulled, pulled my shoulder blades…how long are you going to keep pulling for?!

“The bone is coming out!” Ignoring the patient’s anguished cry, the therapist coolly says, “Relax.” “The shoulder blade is meant to be separated from the back. It’s not a bone that’s attached to anything. If the shoulder blade can’t move freely…” He tightens his grip on the bone and continues, “Poor bl00d flow and a slower metabolic rate. A slower metabolism is related to obesity and rough skin, but it also impairs the function of immune cells, making you more easily fatigued and susceptible to illness. For example, you may be more susceptible to catching a cold.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“I took a bodywork class when I was working in Japan. It was a short course, but I learned a lot.”

　Japanese people. They are a people who love to eat puffer fish. Peeling shoulder blades off of people’s backs is probably no big deal to them.

　Next, he starts working on the left shoulder blade. As Paul continues working silently, I whine, “Why didn’t you ask me, ‘Does it hurt?'”

“Do you want me to listen?”

“I want it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It hurts.”

“Th-“

“pole!”

“It’s okay!” Paul laughed. “Don’t worry. Trust me. You’re scared.”

“It’s not scary. It’s painful!”

“It’ll be over soon. Now, just relax your body.”

　What a heartless guy. I’ll learn massage someday. Is there a massage technique that can compete with the rough technique of “scapular peeling”? I’ll ask WWF later.

　After about 30 minutes had passed, I heard Paul say, “Okay, that’s it.” My shoulder blades were back in place. It seemed I’d somehow survived. I tried to put on a shirt, but my body was as heavy as clay, and I couldn’t get up. I felt more tired than before. I complained to him while still lying face down, and Paul said, “That’s fine.” “It’s best to take it easy now and not move too much. Shiatsu is a massage that balances yin and yang. Even if you’re exhausted right after it’s over, your body should feel refreshed by tomorrow.”

　I was told not to move much, but I couldn’t move at all. Paul took a Volvic out of the fridge, poured it into a glass, and placed it near my head.

“Drink some water. If you’re going to get up, wake up slowly.”

“Thank you……”

　Suddenly, sleepiness hits me. The thought that I need to drink water is being erased by sleepiness. My eyelids are heavy. I close them as my brain tells me to. Paul is saying something. I didn’t hear him, so I asked him to say it again. Paul says something again. I still can’t hear him. I need to drink water, right? I know that, but my body remains face down and doesn’t move. Mom strokes my head. No, this isn’t Mom. It’s Paul. “I’m going to wake up now.” That’s what I said. I think that’s what I said. Her gentle hands continue to stroke me. My consciousness is rapidly drawn into sleep. Mom gently kisses my shoulders and cheeks. Shiatsu is a massage that balances yin and yang. While I sleep, my body balances yin and yang. Deep, deep – a comfortable slumber of healing comes. I seem to have fallen asleep, and when I woke up, the sun had risen. The morning sun was softly shining into the room. I slowly got up, and the blanket that was covering my body was turned over and fell off. I don’t remember when it was put on me. It seems that there is no weight or dullness left in my body. I stared blankly at the dust dancing in the morning light for a while, then took a hot shower. It felt like I was in heaven.

　At three o’clock in the afternoon, when I have a good break from work, I go out to buy coffee. I think 80% of Starbucks’ profits come from office workers. It has become such a habit that I can’t even remember where I used to drink coffee before it was available. There is free unlimited coffee in the office, but it is a brown “something” that resembles coffee, with a minimal amount of caffeine. There are efforts to abolish office coffee because using plastic cups leads to environmental destruction, but no one would complain if that were to happen.

　The entrance to the office building has a mirrored wall on part of it, which makes the large space look even larger. As I pass by, I glance at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a brown suit and a white shirt. I can’t see it unless I take off my jacket, but the shirt has white embroidery. My tie is pink. When I say pink, don’t imagine the color a comedian wears. It’s a dark pink tie with a deep wine red geometric pattern. I would usually wear black or dark brown shoes, but today I’m wearing deep burgundy. This outfit means “I’m going out for a bit of fun after work.” The concert at the Metropolitan starts at seven. If I finish my work quickly, I’ll be there in time.

“Why!”

　As soon as I passed through the revolving doors at the entrance, I heard a loud, angry voice. The first floor of the building was an open space that was open to the public and served as a small rest area.

　I turned towards the voice and saw a woman mumbling something, hiding behind a complex glass object. For a moment, I thought she was just talking to herself, but on closer inspection, I saw she was talking into her cell phone.

“…Come on…If that’s the case, you should have done it sooner…No No need to apologize or anything…”

　I can hear the staccato sounds of dissatisfaction. The woman brushes her long blonde hair back in an irritated manner. She has clear features and a determined face. I’ve seen her before. And not just her face. I know her full name and the department she works in. Her name is Cheryl, Cheryl Turner from the Sales Promotion Department. How do I know that? Even if we’re in different departments, every man in this company would have her name etched into their memory, along with her beautiful looks.

“That’s how it always is! You’re so selfish!” Sheryl yelled and hung up the phone. I was staring blankly at the scene, and when she turned to face me, our eyes met. I almost looked away, but managed to hold myself back. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so there was no reason for me to look away (probably).

　Sheryl didn’t glare at me as I eavesdropped, but instead laughed shyly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, ‘You saw something weird.’

“Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I say, shrugging my shoulders in the hope that it will make me look a little more lovable and lessen the guilt of being an eavesdropper.

“Oh, it’s fine. But I was shocked to see you screaming hysterically.”

　Without any regard for my sin, she walked over to me, exuding a sweet perfume that was a mix of flowers and peaches.

“Did you fight with your boyfriend?”

“It’s my sister. We had made plans to have dinner tonight, but she had some urgent business and couldn’t come. She must be a guy. That’s how you make a promise with your sister. My stomach is already in ‘sushi mode’. I’m so disappointed.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who would love to eat sushi with you.”

　Glamorous and sexy. Sheryl’s beauty attracts the attention of men. She can’t have a shortage of partners unless all the men in the world are gay.

“Do you think so?” asked Cheryl, looking up.

“Of course,” I assure him, nodding.

“Well, join me tonight. I’ll wait for you here after work.” Saying this, Cheryl flipped her blonde hair and quickly disappeared into the elevator lobby, leaving behind the scent of flowers and peaches.

　What? Excuse me, but what about now? … There was no need to chase after her and confirm. “Spending the night,” she had certainly said.

　Sheryl is beautiful. She’s the company’s idol. She’s glamorous and sexy.

*・°☆.。 “Let’s hang out tonight”☆.。 . : *・°☆.。 . :

*・°☆.。 “Let’s date tonight”☆.。 . : *・°☆.。 . :

　— Calm down. She said, “Let’s have dinner together.” Your stomach is just in “sushi mode.” Don’t get all excited like a high school kid.

　In an attempt to regain my composure, I sipped the drink I was holding (incidentally, caffeine has a central nervous system stimulant effect, which I didn’t realize at the time was the exact opposite of calmness).

　But… I’ll tell you what!!! It seems she’s not as unapproachable as she looks. She talks like a normal person. I’ve heard people say she’s “expensive,” but that was probably just a groundless rumor.

　I’ve been known to be shunned because of my appearance. Of course, I was called “posh,” I was “sulky,” I was “scary-looking” (just leave me alone!). At a party the other day, I was mistaken for a gay man. But maybe I was just looking at Sheryl with my preconceived notions. A girl out of reach. A lonely existence that I could never have. Maybe she’s always been treated like this by the opposite s3x. What if men were keeping their distance from Sheryl, saying “I can’t handle it!”, just like Annie, the apprentice, hardly tried to talk to me? What if, as a result, Sheryl is alone in Manhattan, without a boyfriend? Sheryl, oh, poor Sheryl! Everyone needs friends. Maybe we could become friends and understand each other.

　Sensing the beginning of a drama, I step into the elevator with high spirits. Just as the doors are about to close, I press the “Open” button again. Before I can eat sushi with Sheryl, there’s one thing I need to do. I have to call a friend.

　I stand next to the glass object where Cheryl was earlier and find Paul’s name in the call history. He was at work, but he still answered the phone. I do the same thing to Paul as Cheryl’s sister. It’s called “last-minute cancellation.”

　When I told him I couldn’t go to the concert today, his voice dropped, and he sounded very disappointed, but he didn’t yell at me like Cheryl had done to her sister.

“I’m sorry. But please forgive me just for today. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll pay for the tickets.”

“That’s fine. I got it for free from a customer, too. Perhaps it’s your mother?”

“Picture?”

“Has something happened to your mother?” Paul asked in a worried tone. I hadn’t expected his reaction, and my heart started pounding.

“Hmm, well… that’s about it… I guess.”

“Okay… I get it. Don’t worry about me. I’ll invite some other friends.”

“Sorry”

“Well then.”

“by”

　—Communication ended.

　What is this? What on earth happened?

　I feel heavy. No, not just “somehow”. I feel “solid”. Guilt washes over me in waves. On top of that, the regret of what I did is surfing on the waves. Should I call back? I call Paul back and… No, I’ll stop. What’s said is what’s been said. And honestly, I want to go out with Cheryl (so much!), but the opportunities are rare. Paul and I live in the same place. It’s not a rare opportunity to go out together, and we can meet whenever we want. It’s not rare, it’s too rare. Lately, I’ve been hanging out with Paul. It’s fun, but I need a girlfriend. Just like Paul needs a boyfriend, I need a specific (not a one-night stand) girlfriend.

“Why can’t we find a lover?” I think I’m finally beginning to understand the reason. Instead of going out somewhere to meet new people, Paul and I watch DVDs together and eat pizza. Neither of us feels lonely without a lover, and like two close older sisters, we create a situation where no one else can get in between us. We’re having so much fun staying the way we are that we’re unconsciously giving up on changing. Maybe I should put some distance between me and him at this point. It’s a sensible adult choice. That’s what it’s all about in the long run. I’ll tell Paul the truth after a while.

　The heaviness of the surfer waves of guilt and regret seemed to be slightly subdued by this theory.

　Come on! Pull yourself together, Dean Kelly! You don’t have time to be all heavy and hunched over! Tonight, you could be getting intimate with the woman of your dreams!

　Cheryl and I went to a Japanese restaurant near Trump Tower. The place, decorated with gorgeous Buddha statues and lanterns, was packed with tourists on a Friday night, as well as New Yorkers who had little interest in discovering new places.

　Cheryl ordered sushi, just as her stomach craved. I love sushi too. Conger eel, tuna, squid, and octopus. The trick is to eat it without remembering the original shape. In addition to sushi, she ordered baby shrimp salad, spicy wasabi, avocado salad, fried beef tongue, and salmon.

“I’m starving!” Sheryl exclaimed, shoving some sushi into her mouth. I hadn’t noticed it before, but she was not dressed for office work. Her suit was baby pink, with a wide opening at the neckline. Her skirt was super short, clinging tightly to her waist. And her heels were about 3.5 inches high. Again, a super short skirt – not bad.

“Maybe I should have been born Japanese. I love sushi. I could eat as much of it as I wanted, every day.”

　Sheryl is not the type to act pretentious or smug in front of men. She is not what she appears to be. She dresses sexy, but she doesn’t make statements that would make you suspect she has a brain disorder, as is common among women like her. She has her own opinions and seems to be interested in politics.

　We slowly enjoyed our meal and conversation, and once we had finished our tea, we finally got up from our seats.

　Just as I finished paying and was about to leave the store, I forgot to put the card back in my wallet and just stood there, because Paul was standing right in front of me, less than five feet away.

　At times like this, I feel that Manhattan is a small island of 57 square kilometers. There are plenty of Japanese restaurants in this area, so why would I choose the same restaurant today, tonight, at this time?

　Paul looked at me in disbelief. I might have wanted to say something, to go over to him, but before I could choose my next move, the tall man put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” the man asked Paul. Paul came back to his senses and muttered, “Nothing.”

“It’s nothing”─I felt the bl00d go cold.

“What’s wrong?” the woman with me asked. Now it was my turn to come to my senses.

“No…” I stammered, shaking my head.

“Let’s go,” Sheryl said, wrapping her arm around me. Not realizing that it was my first physical contact with her, I just stood there. Pulling my arm, she started to walk.

　As I left the store, Paul and the tall man went further inside.

“She looks a very young ‘mother’—“

　I heard Paul say this as we passed each other. At that moment, the sushi I had just eaten turned into lead. I held my stomach over my clothes. My stomach was pretending to be the victim. Hey, that’s not true, is it? The one who was at fault was I.

　Cheryl and I went south and settled down in a small bar. A complete change from a bright and lively establishment to a dimly lit and quiet bar. Doing this makes the woman overly conscious of the fact that “we’re alone now.” It’s a strategy that can instantly make you intimate with the other person, but it also carries the risk that the other person will suddenly back off, making it a high-risk, high-return tactic.

　I had no intention of doing anything with Cheryl tonight. I wanted to take my time and get to know her better. Yes, that’s what I had been thinking up until now. But tonight, I didn’t want to be alone. If I were to be alone and start thinking, I would end up criticizing and hating various parts of myself, and in the end, I would feel like I was doing something terrible that I didn’t need to do.

“You seem a bit depressed ever since we left that store.”

　A few minutes after ordering the cocktail, Cheryl noticed something was off about me. She’s sharp. To be honest, I don’t know any women who aren’t sharp.

　It was a date with a goddess. It was dark out, so why bother? I straightened my back and tried to say, “It’s nothing.” But it was impossible. The only thing that came out of my mouth was, “…Yeah,” in an honest tone.

“What on earth happened?”

“Well, I’m having a bit of a fight with a male friend right now.”

　Strictly speaking, it is “planned to cause a dispute” or “it is predicted that there will be a dispute,” but it is difficult to explain in too much detail.

“It’s my fault… I’m the one at fault…”

“Did you apologize?”

“no……”

　It had just happened. There was no chance to apologize.

“You’re going to apologize, aren’t you?” asked Cheryl.

“Yes,” I said, staring at the frothy Tom Collins in my hand as I listened to the soft jazz playing in the bar. “But I wonder if they’ll forgive me.”

　It’s embarrassing to hear such a weak complaint. “Confessing about things that aren’t going well in your life” is the worst thing you can do on a first date.

“Dean…” Cheryl gently placed her hand on mine on the counter. She looked into my face. Her impressive eyes. Her long hair swayed, and I could smell the gentle scent of flowers and peaches.

“I’m not in a position to say anything, but if I were you, I’d apologize until my friend forgives me. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll give up. If they’re a true friend, they’ll forgive you. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Have confidence.”

“Thank you.”

“Honesty is a virtue.” That saying hit home. Two hours after I’d laid my heart on the line, Cheryl was there to comfort me in bed.

　Last night was a whirlwind night–or so I’d like to say, but the s*x with her was a bit disappointing. But it wasn’t Cheryl’s fault. She wasn’t to blame in the slightest. It had been less than 24 hours since we’d spoken to each other for the first time, and yet she had given me a spectacular service, and her naked body was perfect enough to be displayed in a museum (or in a Playboy magazine). Frankly, I was in the wrong (dammit! It’s me again!). I was so upset about Paul that I had a hard time concentrating on the act, and I ended it without performing to my usual ability. At times like this, men are usually really depressed, but I didn’t feel too bad. She was generous and didn’t judge me on just one lovemaking session, and was kind to me the next morning. Cheryl made me a promise to go on our next date, and then she gave me a smile and a kiss, saying, “I’m going to yoga class now,” and left.

“The only time you have too much time is when you’ve made a mistake.” – Dean Kelly

　After Friday is Saturday, which means “Today I have plenty of time to think about my failures.”

　I stretch and grab a lemon and soda from the fridge. I cut the lemon in half and squeezed it into the soda. I think about adding some gin, but then I decide against it. I need to keep my head clear as I examine the events of the previous day. Alcohol won’t help with that.

[Verification, what did I do wrong?]

1: I eavesdropped on Cheryl’s phone call.

　───So far, this turned out well.

2: Talked to Sheryl.

　───No problem with this either.

3: Cheryl invites you to dinner, and you accept.

　─── A bit tricky.

　Should I have told Cheryl, “Maybe next time,” at this point? Maybe. But “maybe next time” could be taken as a convenient way to say no. First of all, if it wasn’t Cheryl, I could have said, “I have plans with a guy friend tonight.” But this time, the person I was with was Cheryl Turner. This wasn’t just any other date. This was a chance given to me by God. I didn’t dare to waste it.

4: Give priority to Cheryl and call Paul to decline the offer.

　The problem here is I lied. I should have been honest.

“I’m sorry, but I want to go on a date with my girlfriend just for today.”

　I should have said that. If I couldn’t do that, I should have just kept my promise to him. Why did I lie like that?

　I drink a glass of lemon soda, take a shower, get dressed, and step outside with wet hair. I don’t know where I’m going. It doesn’t matter where I’m going. I just don’t want to stay cooped up in my room at a time like this.

　Although I said anywhere would be fine, I avoided the local Starbucks because the idea of ​​running into Paul again was too much for me right now.

　My wet hair quickly cooled in the outside air. Three hundred people freeze to death in New York every year. If I keep walking around like this, I’ll join that number. I look up at the sky, breathing out white breath, and see a white, bird-like airplane floating in the blue winter sky. Thailand, Indonesia, Morocco, Egypt. If I were told to get on a plane right now, I’d be happy to get on, no matter where the destination was. But doing so wouldn’t solve the problem. I know very well that leaving the room or the country wouldn’t solve the problem.

　I need to apologize to Paul. Even though I think that, I find myself avoiding the Starbucks in my neighborhood. I’m not running away. I just want a little more time, a little more time to think. Without caffeine.

　As I was wandering around, looking for somewhere warm, my cell phone rang. An unknown number was displayed on the screen. As I was wondering whether to answer or not, the phone went to voicemail. I listened to the recorded voice, and it was Sheryl. She was asking if it was okay for her to stop by again that evening. I called back from my call history, and this time it was her voicemail. I recorded a message saying, “Please come. I’ll be waiting.”

　Is this the solution to the problem? Of course not. I know that. I’ll spend the night with her, and then I’ll call Paul. Yes, I’ll do that. I said to myself, without making any promises to anyone.

　On the way back to the apartment, I bought a bouquet. I thought it was for Sheryl, but I guess it’s for me after all. I feel so lifeless right now that I want to decorate my room with flowers. Something alive and healthy. That’s what I need right now. Flowers and Sheryl—that’s what I need.

　Spending a weekend with Cheryl. Arranging flowers in her room, going shopping together, boiling pasta together, and taking a shower together.

　Being together is so much better than being alone, and it’s helped me slowly get my energy back and (best of all) my s*x life back on track.

　When I wake up in the middle of the night, I find Sheryl in my arms. I sneak out of bed so as not to wake her up and go to the bathroom. I have a lover whom I can spend the night with until morning. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way.

　I sit in a chair and light a cigarette, watching Cheryl sleep in the dimly lit room. Her graceful curves stand out against the white sheets. She’s as perfect as a sports car being draped at a car launch. You’re lucky, Dean. There aren’t many people like Cheryl. And even if there are, they only exist in magazines or on the big screen. I’m happy. My life is going well.

　I take a deep drag on my smoke and think about Paul. I’ll call him tomorrow. It’s 100% my fault. I have to apologize. Just apologize. And maybe Paul doesn’t care as much as I think he does. He might say something like, “What about the other day? That’s annoying, were you worried about that?” For example, the man who was with Paul that night. What if that was a fateful night for Paul, just like I met my new lover that night? “Because you broke our promise, I got a boyfriend too.” No, that’s a way of thinking that’s too naive. I’m not a “big millionaire.” There’s no way that life is that convenient (especially mine).

　I came back from my foggy thoughts and realized that the cigarette had almost burned out to the filter. Most of the ashes had spilled onto the floor. It would be hard to clean up in the dark. I would clean it up tomorrow after the sun came up. Anyway, tomorrow. Everything is tomorrow.

　I slide in next to the sleeping sports car and listen to the gentle sound of sleeping people, rather than the sound of the engine.

　I am happy. My life is going well.

　He muttered it like a spell.

　Sleep came quickly. See? It’s working. I’m sleeping like a baby. Everything is working.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” I thought late on a Sunday night. But did I call the next day, Monday? Today is Thanksgiving. Yes, it’s Thursday. I worked overtime and finally got home after 10 o’clock. I took a TV dinner out of the freezer, heated it, and ate it. I took a shower, put on a bathrobe, and turned on the TV. There was depressing news playing. I looked for less depressing news, but couldn’t find any, so I turned off the TV and put on an Erik Satie CD.

　Time passed without my contacting Paul. I’m sure no reader would be fooled by his explanation that he’d gotten so busy with work preparing for the Christmas exhibition that he’d forgotten to call. I would have liked to be fooled by that excuse, but it was impossible. No matter how busy I was, a phone call would only take five minutes. Even now. And yet I didn’t call.

　I opened a bottle of Perrier and sat on the sofa. As I listened to the sad melody of Gymnopédie, I suddenly had a flashback of Paul’s words.

　───You’re a very young mother───

“Damn it, what’s that? I never said anything! You’re the only one who figured it out!”

　Of course, it’s wrong to get angry like this. I am completely at fault. But I can’t suppress my anger. I didn’t think this way yesterday. I was feeling strangely carefree and thought, “Well, they’ll probably contact me eventually.” The day before yesterday, I thought, “Since I am at fault, I should apologize properly.”

　Various thoughts come and go. I don’t take any action, I just immerse myself in my thoughts, and my feelings go up and down. As a result, even though all I get is “complete exhaustion,” I don’t try to contact Paul.

　I wondered why he didn’t call. It was not normal to be so fussy. If he was so worried, he should just pick up the phone and say, “I’m sorry about the other day. I lied to you. I’m not going to make excuses. I’m sorry.” Why can’t he say that? Why doesn’t he contact me? In the first place, there’s no point in pursuing reasons like “why?” It’s just a trick to drag things out. The reason doesn’t matter. Just call…

　I looked at the clock and saw that it was just past midnight. It would be rude to call at this time of night – I thought, feeling strangely relieved. It was Thursday, and five minutes until Friday. A week had passed since then. I had arranged to spend the weekend with Cheryl at my house, starting the day after tomorrow. The only time I could call her was tomorrow. Even though I knew that, I knew that she probably wouldn’t call. And that turned out to be exactly the case.

“Well… what a coincidence.”

　I heard this voice from the seat next to me at the movie theater before the screening.

　A small-faced woman with red hair. I have no idea who the woman smiling at me is. By the way, sitting opposite me is Sheryl. Of course, they’re in the middle of a date. Oh my God, did I do something wrong again…?

　The redhead woman whispered to me as I remained silent.

“Annie. From Alexander Abel. Do you remember?”

“Annie! Oh, it’s you! You seem different when we meet outside. I didn’t recognize you at first. Sorry.”

　Even though I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel relieved. I wonder. Maybe I’ve become a scaredy person since then.

　Annie smiled and added, “This is the first time we’ve met outside of a store.” “Meeting in a place like this… what a small town.”

　A movie theater isn’t a strange place to be in, but it’s a small town. Since the night I ran into Paul, I’m no longer surprised by who I meet anywhere. Even if the person sitting next to me is Woody Allen, I’ll just say, “It’s a small town.”

“Dean, where are you?” asked Cheryl.

　With no guilt in my heart, I proudly introduce the woman sitting next to me.

“This is Annie. She’s a staff member at my regular hair salon. Annie, this is Cheryl. She’s my girlfriend.”

　Cheryl and Annie exchanged pleasantries. This is how Paul should have introduced Cheryl. Just a few misbuttons can change your whole life.

　Annie introduced me to her friend, “This is Carrie. She’s my high school classmate.”

　”Hello,” Carrie said, flashing me a smile and showing me her braces.

“We came to see the movie today because Carrie wanted to see it,” Annie said. “But I wanted to see the new Johnny Depp movie,” she said, pouting. Cheryl replied.

“Me too. I like this movie. He’s just keeping me company. Right, Dean?”

“No way, I was interested in seeing that too. Umm… what was the title again? Ocean’s 14?”

“Oh, Dean!” Cheryl grabbed me by the shoulders and laughed.

　The truth is, she’s right. I wouldn’t go see this movie starring Cameron Diaz unless my girlfriend insisted. (I won’t reveal the title of the movie. It definitely won’t be “Ocean’s 14”)

　When Cheryl stood in the restroom, Annie complimented her, saying, “You’re a lovely person.”

“She’s really beautiful. Are you a model or something?”

“No, she’s a colleague.”

“It suits you very well.”

　Just as Cameron Diaz is popular with women, Cheryl seems to be worthy of being considered a “nice person” by women as well. It seems that women have no qualms about praising their fellow women (except for crooked women). In comparison, I think men are bad at praising others without any ulterior motives. Men who can casually compliment others are attractive. I would like to be like that all the time. Cheryl is a nice woman in everyone’s eyes. Even if it’s just a polite gesture, I don’t mind when someone compliments my girlfriend. By the way, if a man calls me “nice,” I can be sure he’s gay.

“It’s about time you came in,” Annie said, looking at my overgrown hair. “I’m sure Paul thinks so too.”

　Annie smiled, and I replied, “I’m sure you don’t think so. I’m having some trouble with Paul right now. I don’t think I’ll be able to come to the store for a while.”

“A fight?”

“It wasn’t a fight. Anyway, the cause was my fault. I did terrible things to him.”

　As I said this, I was surprised at my own words. Why was I saying this? And so casually.

　I have never told anyone about what happened between Paul and me. I had confessed a little to Cheryl that night, but I never really explained it to her after that. It’s not that I’m hiding it, I just haven’t had a chance to talk about it again, and it’s not a pleasant topic to talk about anyway. Some people like to tell people about their relationships in the dentist’s waiting room, but I’m not one to be that self-indulgent.

　Annie opened her eyes in shock and said, “I…Paul is just like always, so I didn’t notice at all.”

“Is he just like always? I see, so I’m the only one who’s worried?”

“I’m not that close to Paul, so I can’t say for sure… but is this something recent?”

“About a week ago. I want to apologize, but I never get the chance. That’s why my hair is so long.”

　Annie and I have only met a few times. And yet, for some reason, I can talk to her very frankly. It may be easier to talk to someone you’re not close to, just like how you can’t tell your parents something but confide in a therapist or psychoanalyst. Seeing how I was talking like a dam had burst here, I thought maybe I wanted to tell someone about this.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe give a message to Paul?” Annie asked with a worried look on her face. “No. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, hurriedly declining. “It’s okay. I’ll tell him myself. But thank you.”

　A 28-year-old man asking a girl ten years his junior to mediate a dispute with a friend. No matter how you look at it, that’s pretty unacceptable.

“Kelly, please don’t go to another store to get your hair cut.”

“Dean’s fine. Oh, I won’t. I promise.”

“I’m always looking forward to you coming to the store. You and Paul… you two always get along so well, I’m jealous. I love seeing you two together.”

　Paul was wrong. Annie didn’t like me. She liked me because I was close to Paul. In other words, she liked “us.”

“I don’t know any other adult men who are this close. I think it’s an ideal relationship. I’m sure they’ll make up soon,” she said, smiling brightly as if to say, “It’s okay.”

“The perfect relationship.” Is that how she saw me and Paul? “Dreams should remain dreams.” Is that what he meant? Now I understand what Paul meant.

　Whether Paul and I have an “ideal relationship” or not? That probably depends on how things develop in the future. Up until now, we’ve been “just close friends.” But if we can get through this hurdle, I’m sure we can become a truly “ideal relationship.”

　The movie starts when Sheryl comes back from the restroom, and ends an hour and a half later. The story left little impression on me. It’s no wonder I can’t focus on the drama unfolding on the screen. My head is already packed with other thoughts.

　I was so worried that I couldn’t even concentrate on the movie. This is a disease. I’ll call Paul tonight. I told Annie, “I’ll tell him myself.” If I break this promise, I’m worthless as a person. From now on, I should wear a bear costume, make no promises to anyone, and live my life abandoning my “humanity.” If you can’t choose the above, you should call Paul tonight as soon as possible. Got it? Remember that, Dean Kelly!

　On the way home, Cheryl asked me what I thought of the movie. I gave my brief opinion: “Cameron Diaz is a good actress.” She seemed disappointed by my boyfriend’s lack of vocabulary. I felt bad for her, but I’m not very good at this kind of movie. I could talk about Monty Python for hours…

“Hey, where should we have dinner?” Cheryl asked cheerfully, regaining her composure.

“Whatever. What about you?”

“Well… how about some Mexican food? I want tacos.”

“Let’s get a taco.”

“That’s it. Let’s go.”

　Harvey Keitel’s lines just fell flat. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen. Cheryl is not Paul. No wonder there was no reaction to “Let’s Get Taco.”

　As Annie said, Cheryl is a very nice and beautiful woman. Not only is she pretty, she’s also caring, smart, cheerful, and laughs a lot. She’s the kind of flawless woman that most men dream of. That’s Cheryl. And what’s not to like about that? I have the woman of my dreams. The one that makes me forget about Harvey Keitel and Monty Python.

　I recite the now-familiar spell in my mouth.

“I’m happy. My life is going well.”

“I’m happy. My life is going well.”

　Let’s give Paul a call.

　My life has been smooth sailing. I have a decent job, I’ve had some decent relationships with women, and I had my first setback when I was rejected from Cooper Union, but I convinced myself that it was just because I had chosen too high a school, and I got away with it. I can call it luck that I’ve been able to navigate life this well, but it’s not without its drawbacks. When was the last time I was under stress? Yes, Dean Kelly is very weak under pressure. I’ve never had my fortitude tested, nor have I been on the receiving end of discrimination. Fortunately, I’ve never had much anxiety about being dumped by a girl or being treated badly by others, and although I’ve had lovers leave me, I wasn’t obsessed enough to chase them.

　Since I decided to call Paul, I have smoked three cigarettes in a row. If I include the one I’m smoking now, it’s four. I’m weak under pressure, and I’m not used to apologizing. I’m ashamed of myself for being so nervous. Am I that scared of one phone call? What’s the worst that could happen? Will Paul hit me? Will he stab me? Will he sue me? All of that is nonsense. Simply, I’ll pick up the phone… I’m not going to bite the bullet.

“Sometimes things are easier said than done. I’m sure Paul doesn’t even care anymore.”

　I try to convince myself that it’s easy, otherwise I’ll just keep putting the phone off again, or I’ll collapse from too many cigarettes.

　I dialed Paul’s speed dial number. The receiver started ringing… The nerves around my ears twitched slightly, and I felt sweaty even though it wasn’t hot.

“The sound of a ringing phone has an amplifying effect on tension.”

　This is a formal report based on a human experiment on a 28-year-old adult male. I’m as nervous now as I was when I applied to Cooper Union…oh no, I failed. Let’s not remember my bad luck.

　Paul is slow to answer the phone.

“Only when the phone call is stressful, the other person is slow to answer.”

　After anatomical science came philosophy, and thanks to an extraordinary tension, I quickly established two new theories.

　The phone continues to ring without being switched to voicemail.

　Wait a minute? Just because it’s not Luzden doesn’t mean the family is at home. Oh, Paul’s not at home. If he’s not there, that can’t be helped. I called to apologize, but he wasn’t there. Too bad.

　Just as I was thinking that and about to press the “cut” button (yes, it’s always this timing), a voice came from the receiver saying, “Hello.”

　Hastily, I pulled my hand away from the end button and answered, “Paul. Hi, it’s me, Dean.” I was just about to hang up when the strange timing made me speak too quickly. Paul’s response was, “…… Yeah.”

There was a long pause before the “Yeah,” which neatly dispelled any convenient hope that “Maybe Paul doesn’t even care.”

“Well… I haven’t had to contact you since then.”

　Paul doesn’t answer. He feels the need to say something, but then he thinks again. He’s the one who called. He has something to say. It’s wrong to expect someone to be cheerful and de-escalate the tension.

“Paul…” I took a breath, licked my dry lips, exhaled, and then the words I’d been meaning to say blurted out all at once.

“Paul, I was horrible to you. I have no excuses. I’m truly sorry.”

“That’s enough.”

　Enough? Enough? Really?

“Is that why you called?”

“Ah”

“Yes……”

　There is silence. Paul doesn’t ask, “Why didn’t you call me before?” or “Who was the woman you were with that night?” Does this mean “enough is enough”? If so, is it just unpleasant to bring it up again here…?

　Unable to bear the silence any longer, I decided to ask a question.

“Was he with you that night…?”

“Tom? He said he wanted to see Chanticleer too. It would be a waste to have a ticket.”

“Ah……”

　—Silence again.

“So you’re that…Tom?”

“What? Lover? None of your business,” Paul replied coldly. I was silent, and he apologized, saying, “Sorry, that was rude of me to say.”

“Yes, you’re right. I have no right to pry into your private life…”

　Being apologized to hurts more than being spoken to rudely, because I’m the one in the wrong after all.

“Tom’s not my boyfriend,” Paul said. “Just a friend. He’s married and has kids.”

“I see.”

　It also wipes away the “convenient expectation part 2” that that night could have been the fateful night for Paul. If he had been lucky that day, then my guilt would be somewhat alleviated—somewhere in my heart, I think that’s what I was thinking. I’m disgusted by my thoughts.

　Paul was silent. I felt like I was being crushed by the pressure of his silence, but I couldn’t just hang up the phone and say, “Okay then.” I licked my lips again and said,

“Paul, I know this is a bit presumptuous of me to ask, but… can we, um… just stay friends like we always have?”

　Silence in response. My heart races, and sweat trickles down my armpits. Silence. Silence. Silence. It goes on for so long that I check the line, “Paul?”

“I’m listening,” the firm voice came back, and then silence again.

“Paul, I…” “You see, Dean…”

　Unable to bear it any longer, I began speaking, and my words clashed with his.

“Sorry, you can go first,” I said, and I heard Paul take a deep breath and let it out. What expression was on his face right now? Not being able to see his face made me feel so uneasy. The telephone is not a good invention.

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Your previous reply was, ‘We’ll be friends like before’ — you don’t understand anything,” Paul said, his voice trailing off with a faint laugh. Of course, it wasn’t because he was happy.

“I’ve always liked you, Dean.”

　I “used to” love it. I caught on to the fact that Paul phrased it in the past tense.

“You’re not some amazing scumbag. You’re just a normal guy who is easy on himself. You want to ignore all that. If that’s how you feel, that’s fine. But if that’s how you feel, I can’t be with you anymore. Let’s let it all go and make up? I’m in trouble… You’re taking this very lightly. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m not talking about breaking promises or dating a girl or anything. I’m talking about how little you take me.”

“Wait…wait a minute!”

　You think I look down on him? If so, I wouldn’t have been bothered like this for over a week!

　Without waiting for an explanation, Paul said:

“I loved you.”

　That’s the perfect past tense.

“…Not now…right?”

　There is no reply. The silence says yes.

“Dean.”

　He called my name. Even though I’d heard him call me by that name many times before, I felt nervous at the moment.

“Dean, you know you’re handsome, and you know I love you. You’ve been taking both too seriously, and I’ve only realized it too late. That’s all.”

　Have you ever had a moment where everything went dark? I have. Right now. What on earth was he saying? Is he boasting about how manly he is? Is he just like a whore who promises s*x but never gives anything?

“Paul, I like you too. But it’s just… It’s not related to that…” As if trying to regain his lost composure, he picked up the receiver that had nearly slipped out of his hand. “You know… I’m not gay. I’m not sexually attracted to you.”

　”I was sexually attracted to you,” Paul said firmly to me as I stammered. “And that involves s*x. I even thought about wanting to sleep with you. You know that, right?”

　I was speechless. Oh, I know. Oh my goodness. I knew it!

　Why had I put off contacting him for so long? Why had I agonized over it for so long? I didn’t want to face the truth. Somewhere in my mind, I knew this was going to happen. “Paul likes Dean. And in a special way.” I didn’t want to admit that fact. If I admitted it, I’d have to do something about his feelings. I’m not gay. I can’t respond to his feelings. There was only one choice I could make. And that choice meant that things would no longer be the same for Paul and me. I didn’t want that to happen. Even if the happiness we had now was built on his pain, I didn’t want to let it go.

“You don’t want to see things,” Paul said. He was right. I ignored him. I ignored my friend’s feelings, his pain, and all of that. How selfish of me. How selfish of me.

“Bye, Dean.”

　Hearing that, I came back to my senses. There was not the slightest bit of hesitation in the voice that said “Goodbye.”

　Without waiting for a reply, the phone was hung up. Paul had said everything he wanted to say and decided there was nothing more he needed to hear from me.

　On Sunday afternoon, Cheryl and I unanimously decided that our schedule would be to “just hang out at home together” (two voters, cactus had no voting rights).

　The reason being, after an early morning meal of greasy Cuban chicken and nut-packed Coppelia ice cream at the Cuban Festival in Central Park, we couldn’t imagine any other schedule.

　I was lying on the sofa flipping through a magazine, while Cheryl was leaning against the cushions reading a paperback. The only sound in the quiet room was the sound of pages turning.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Sheryl suddenly asked. Staring at the magazine, I replied “Sure” without even listening to the question.

“You said on our first date that things weren’t going well with your friends… right?”

“Ah”

“How did that end up?”

　I answered without looking up from my magazine.

“It didn’t work.”

“That’s right…” There was a short pause, then Cheryl asked, “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that… a woman?”

“No,” he said, turning the page of the magazine.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really?”

　Sheryl was quiet. I didn’t say anything either. Sheryl just stared at me. I avoided her gaze and pretended to be reading a magazine. The article was about a beach resort in Malaysia.

“…Cheryl, have you ever been to Langkawi?” Her eyes were fixed on the magazine, staring blankly at the photo of a beautiful beach.

“No,” said Cheryl.

“It seems like a nice place. Let’s go together sometime.”

“…That’s nice.”

　Neither of them spoke after that.

　The sound of magazines and paper bags turning pages melts into the air warmed by the radiator. I must have fallen asleep before I knew it. When I woke up, Cheryl was gone.

　The following weekend, Cheryl went to stay at her sister’s house in New Jersey and didn’t come to our house. After that, I stopped hearing from her. Cheryl stopped wanting me. I didn’t pursue Cheryl. I didn’t regret it. I regretted not regretting it. We dated for less than a month. We didn’t last until Christmas.

　Since I broke up with Sheryl, my hair has been growing as it should. Hair aside, I’m starting to worry about the length of my sideburns. It might be nice to let it grow and change my image, but if I let it grow without any vision, I can’t deny that it gives off a half-hearted impression. No, I should stop saying “can’t deny it” and say straight out, “it doesn’t look good”? I only managed to keep my eyebrows in shape, so my facial features didn’t change. If the day comes when my eyebrows lose their shape, that will be the end of my life. I’ll keep this in mind as an important barometer of my life.

“Dean Kelly”

　A firm voice came from behind me as I was working diligently at my desk. There was only one “Dean Kelly” in this department. I couldn’t help but turn around when he called me by my full name.

“Yes?”

　I smiled slightly and looked up at the source of the voice. It was Sheila Cox. She was wearing a red suit and red pumps. I had heard that red was an aggressive color, but she was able to fully express her aggressiveness without relying on color.

“My hair and sideburns are too long.”

　Sheila ignores the smiling, handsome man and launches personal attacks using the bare minimum of words, her aim always spot on.

“Are you in the middle of growing that out?”

“It’s not like that in particular…”

　What good timing. Just as I was starting to worry about my hair length, I got a check. Sheila folded her arms and told me to hurry up and get a haircut. “Even if you’re growing it out, don’t be sloppy. We sell art. Being lax about beauty is disrespectful to artists and customers, so please be aware of that.”

　Sheila argues that my current hairstyle is “unbecoming of beauty and disrespectful to artists and clients.” My overgrown sideburns are a disgrace to great artists and cast a dark shadow over their inspiration. My sideburns are so sinful.

　The boss narrowed his eyes and emphasized, “Don’t be sloppy.”

　As you say, there is not a single sloppy look on her. Her hair is neatly tied up, not a single strand loose, and her lips are always perfectly contoured. I’m sure there are five more models of the same model in her closet. On the other hand, I have a delicate nature, and when I’m mentally stressed, it shows on my face. It’s not just my hair now. I’m sure my worn-out aura is gushing out of every pore in my body.

　Sheila looked at me intently and said, “You have bags under your eyes.” “You know, if you don’t take care of yourself, those bags are not enough.”

　So it’s not just a bear? Does that mean “I’ll step on my subordinates with my pumps to make corrections” or something like that?

“Cut it by the end of this week, OK?” With that order, the sergeant left.

“Sure, you could just get a spare body out of the closet, but I’m a human being! I get depressed, I get worn out! A bear? What the hell do you mean, a bear?! I’m not a model!” I roared manfully, careful not to let her hear.

“Go get a haircut quickly.” How difficult is that for me right now?

　You might be thinking that it’s okay to go to Vidal Sassoon or somewhere else to get your hair cut, even if it’s not at a salon where Paul works. Maybe. I’m sure that’s the case. But if I choose a different salon, I feel like I’ll be completely cut off from Paul. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the comment that I’ve already cut off my relationship with Paul.

“Cut it this week,” Sheila said, but that’s very difficult. The scriptwriter of my life is not good enough to deal with the problems that lie ahead in the allotted time.

　Having escaped from Sergeant Cox, I tried to relax in the lobby on the first floor, but a new challenge arose.

　I’m currently sitting on a circular bench seat about three yards in diameter. In the center of the seat, several bamboo stalks stand tall toward the atrium, surrounded by seasonal flowers, creating a floral arrangement that soothes the hearts of those who visit this building.

　Yes, it’s a gigantic arrangement, so big that it would completely obscure any important information, like the fact that your ex-boyfriend is sitting on the other side of the seat.

　Two women have been having a pleasant conversation on the bench seat for some time now. I can’t see them from here, but I recognize their voices. If I’m not hallucinating because I can’t stand the loneliness, the laughter belongs to my “ex-girlfriend,” Cheryl Turner. She doesn’t seem to notice that her ex-boyfriend is sitting here at all.

　I wanted to get up, but if I did, Sheryl would notice me. I wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, but I didn’t want to show my presence and be suspected of “eavesdropping on their conversation.” So, I had to wait here with bated breath for her to leave…

　The word “boyfriend” suddenly caught my ears as I was an ambitious person who was willing to accept the coincidences and trials that God offered to me.

“But you have a boyfriend,” came a cheerful female voice. This wasn’t Sheryl.

“Right? Cheryl? You’re going to spend Christmas with him, right? Aaaah, I’m so jealous!”

　What? I’m still single, and Sheryl’s already dating someone?

　So that the other person couldn’t see me, I leaned forward toward the bamboo and seasonal flowers.

“No, we broke up,” said Cheryl.

　So, the “boyfriend” is me.

“They broke up? Wow! What a shame!” the other person yelled, echoing through the lobby. “Breaking up right before Christmas is stupid! And isn’t he a great guy?! Well, if Sheryl broke up with him, maybe I should go out with her.”

　I can’t see “you”. I hope you’re beautiful.

“No, Gina,” Cheryl said, trying to stop her.

　Why? Does she still have feelings for me?

　Gina took over with that simple question.

“Why not? Are you trying to ruin the start of my brand new romance?” Gina said jokingly, to which Sheryl replied.

“Don’t bother me, just a word of advice. Try him out, you’ll be disappointed. Dean Kelly is a boring guy.”

　───A boring man. After the “tsu”, there is a small “tsu”. It is filled with deeper emotion than emphatic words such as “very” or “extremely”. The silent flower arrangement suddenly seems dear to me. My heart needs healing at this moment, so much so that I suddenly want to admire the flowers.

“Really?” said Gina. “But he’s pretty popular with the younger girls in our department.”

　A flame of hope is lit in my wounded heart. I don’t know which department, but I think I’ll apply for a transfer.

“No one knows,” says Cheryl, snuffing out the light of hope with her high heels.

“Hmm, looks can be deceiving,” Gina said, seemingly agreeing with Sheryl’s opinion. How can people believe bad rumors so easily? Gina has never met me before. That’s how bad rumors spread. It’s truly frightening.

“Now I want to date a man who will open up to me.”

　I heard Sheryl say this with a sigh.

“I’ve missed him a lot.”

　Lonely? Wait, that can’t be true. Sure, we were together for a short time, but we had fun most of the time. We bought flowers, lit candles, went to Cameron Diaz movies together, and had great sexual chemistry. And you’re saying you were lonely all this time? I was closed off? I wasn’t counting license plates the whole time we were together, and I never looked at other women. What does it mean to be closed off in the first place? What determines if you’re open-minded?

　My objections bubble up like popcorn from a pot. But there’s no point in telling her. Cheryl and I don’t have a “relationship to build from now on.” Even if I argue, it’ll just look like I’m “complaining about an ex-girlfriend.” And it would be the worst if she found out I was eavesdropping again. Yes, I said at the beginning that I wasn’t “eavesdropping,” but now I was in perfect “eavesdropping” mode. This was the second time I’d secretly listened in on her conversation. It seemed like my relationship with Cheryl was under a strange star.

“The worst thing about Dean was…” Cheryl whispered.

　What? Is there something else you haven’t said, Mademoiselle?

“He’ll never understand why I feel lonely.”

　───My breath stopped. To be precise, I “stopped breathing.” The popcorn of indignation deflated in an instant.

　Ah, yes. You’re right. I don’t understand why she was lonely. Flowers, candles, movies, s3x. I still don’t understand what was wrong with any of it.

　Paul’s words come to mind: “You don’t want to see things.”

　Is that so? Paul, do you think I did the same to Cheryl as I did to you?

“A closed-minded, boring guy.” That was the assessment Sheryl gave me after the four-week trial period. I couldn’t understand her. And she only understood me to that extent. It seemed like the feelings between Sheryl and me had finally aligned.

　We didn’t get to the point of going “further.” Cheryl decided to leave Dean. Dean didn’t pursue her. The relationship ended completely before the other became indispensable to each other.

“But even just a good-looking single man is rare,” Gina said. “Just think about it. Excluding married and gay men, there are nine women for every man in Manhattan. Even if he’s a boring guy, wouldn’t it be nice to wake up in bed in the morning with a handsome man next to you?”

“Well, I suppose so…” Sheryl nodded in agreement. I gave a small fist pump in my heart. It was a small victory, but it was better than nothing.

“Isn’t that right?” Gina said. “I don’t want anything extravagant. As long as he’s good-looking and good at s*x, I’m generous enough to look past his flaws!”

“Looking for a man who is good-looking and good at s*x.” I see, those are generous conditions.

“So, how was it? Was it good?” Gina chuckled. It would not be an exaggeration to describe it as obscene.

“Well, I guess you do have one good point,” Cheryl said, chuckling.

　I pumped my fist in my heart. I don’t like the idea of ​​”having at least one good thing”, but I’ve managed to get my ex-boyfriend to acknowledge my abilities (of course, I know this is still a “stingy victory”!).

“Then you’re within my reach. That’s a relief to hear. If she’s bad at s*x, then I feel bad for the way Dean Kelly looks.”

“Oh, Gina!” Cheryl burst out laughing. It was a cute laugh. For the first time since I’d broken up with her, I felt heartbroken.

　Whether Gina has a generous heart or not, Cheryl has good friends. They make her laugh when she’s feeling down. Those who leave are forgotten by the day. I can’t make her laugh anymore.

“Well, let’s go,” said Gina, standing up first. Sheryl followed suit, and I bent down, pretending to brush the dust off my shoes. When they were far enough apart, I sneaked a peek at Sheryl’s friend…

　Gina, my “brand new romance” with you has been postponed indefinitely. What’s the point? No one’s interested in a “boring guy” with overgrown sideburns.

　This is a mysterious restaurant that no one knows about. The chef’s name is “Dean De Querini,” a chef who is also unknown to the world and a one-of-a-kind.

　Today’s dinner is Italian. I wrap an old sheet around my waist as an apron, put on some Pavarotti music to get myself in the mood, and head to the kitchen.

　I don’t dislike cooking. I don’t have a repertoire worth boasting about, but I am confident enough in my ability to make things that I would be happy to serve to other people.

　From my perspective as an art school graduate, I think the mental state when cooking is very similar to that when painting. All unnecessary thoughts stop, and you face your work with a level of concentration that is impossible in everyday life. Just by the simple act of continuing to move your hands, you watch the shape that should be there emerge, and the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction after everything is finished is irreplaceable. Cooking is very creative and is equivalent to an artistic act.

　He boiled a pot full of water, peeled the garlic, and sliced ​​it thinly. He made bread and cheese from Zabar’s, a tomato and arugula salad, and De Querini’s special pepperoncino. He made strong coffee in the espresso machine and planned to have ice cream for dessert after the meal. He worked efficiently.

　Just as I put the pasta in the pot, the phone rang.

“Hello, Bonasera.”

“Bona sera? What’s that? Is it a popular greeting these days?” my mother’s suspicious voice came from the receiver.

“No, that’s not it.”

“You’re still at home. So? When are you coming to Miami?”

“Christmas is here.”

“Yeah, well, of course I knew. I was just kidding.”

　Mom’s joke is hard to understand. I hold the receiver between my shoulder and neck, stir the pot, and ask, “Are Irene and the others there yet?”

“My family will be coming tomorrow.”

“Brother-in-law Norman, too?”

“He’s busy. He always is. Weren’t you going on a trip somewhere?”

“I don’t have any travel plans.”

“Oh dear, poor thing. Are you staying in cold New York for the holidays? If you don’t have any travel plans, why don’t you come over here? I wouldn’t mind bringing a girlfriend.”

“I wish I could, but I’m busy,” she told herself, because she had a lot of things to do, like putting garlic in the frying pan.

“Yeah, ‘Busy, busy!’ That’s what guys always say. But even if they’re busy, they have Christmas off. Why don’t you at least say hello to Irene? You two live in the same Manhattan after all.”

　Even though we’re both in Manhattan, the guy lives in a 40-story condominium in the Upper West Side, while I live in a modest apartment. My nephew and niece are cute, but I don’t feel like going to their hideout often, where I might get body-searched just for going there.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with spending Christmas just with your girlfriend,” Mom said, “but it’s a good thing, Dean. I don’t think it’s great that you don’t even have time to see your mother or sister.”

　Oops, it’s started. This is going to be a long one.

“Sorry, Mom. I’m in the middle of boiling pasta right now,” he confesses honestly, and somehow manages to hang up the phone with the closing words, “Say hello to Irene and the others.”

“Christmas alone with my girlfriend.” How nice it would be. But things aren’t going so well in reality. There are no customers at Ristorante de’ Querini. Mom thinks too highly of me. She doesn’t expect her son to be alone on a holiday.

　Pavarotti was silent. The pasta was overcooked. A painting can be painted over, but cooking can’t. The sadness of having to shove such an obvious failure into your stomach. I’m glad I didn’t feed it to someone else. Or, on the other hand, if I were with someone, would even this failure be a “happy episode that brings a little laughter”?

“Oh dear, too bad. Is Holiday stuck in cold New York, too?”

　Mommy is always right. With a premonition that it’s going to be a “poor thing” and “a pity thing” holiday, I reach for the tempting ice cream. Stone Creamery’s Banana Caramel Crush. Cheryl’s favorite flavor. I finish off the 14 ounces of ice cream by myself and go to sleep. Hoping that the power of carbohydrates and sugar will heal the “poor thing” and “a pity thing”. –Amen!

　When I woke up, it was Christmas Eve afternoon. I didn’t have any particular schedule for today.

[Problem: How do corporate warriors in the prime of their working lives spend their days off when they have nothing in particular planned?]

　A: I spend the time sleeping.

　B: Spend the day sleeping.

　C: Spend the day sleeping.

　D: Go out and volunteer.

　E: Spend the day sleeping.

　And so, I return to sleep.

　The next time I opened my eyes, it was the evening of Christmas Eve.

　I pull the blanket up to my neck and close my eyes again in bed. The ideal scenario would be to sleep and sleep and continue to sleep, not even noticing that Santa has come, and when I wake up, it’s December 26th. But sleep doesn’t come. I lie down for a while, but my mind just gets clearer and clearer. I’m not waiting for Santa, but for Sandman. (※Sandman = spirit that brings sleep) “Hurry up, Sandman… hurry up and put sand in my eyes…” My prayers are in vain, I don’t feel any sleepiness at all. Oh, my God. I have insomnia. I’ve only slept sixteen hours since yesterday.

　Giving up on the Sandman’s visit, which showed no sign of coming, I slowly crawled out of bed.

　I took a hot shower, brewed some coffee, checked my mail, and found that a package had arrived at the concierge. Two nicely wrapped packages. They were Christmas presents from my family. One was from my mom, and the other was from my sister, Irene. It was still early evening on Christmas Eve, but I decided to break the rules and open the packages.

　When I opened the present from my mom, I found a check for two hundred dollars and a hand-knit sweater. Mom’s presents are always heartfelt. I can picture my mother buying yarn in hot Miami and knitting sweaters for her daughter, son, and grandchild.

　The present from my sister was also a sweater. It was made of the most wonderfully soft cashmere I’ve ever seen. If I heard the price, I’d scream. Last year, I received a TV. When I told Irene that my TV had broken just before Christmas, she told me not to wait until Christmas to buy one. I did as she said, and a Japanese-made flat-screen TV was delivered to me on Christmas Eve. Every year, I think about just telling her straight out, “I want a Porsche,” but I’m worried that she’ll send it to me, so I haven’t done it yet.

　Inside the cashmere package was a card from Stella, her two-year-old niece. Next to what appears to be a portrait, Irene had added a note: “On the right is Uncle Dean, and the one in red next to him is Elmo from Sesame Street. Although Stella cannot yet write, this illustration is filled with her love for her uncle and a message of Merry Christmas.”

　What a lovely and wonderful card. Love must be a super item that transcends age, gender, and everything else and makes everyone equally happy. Come to think of it, Stella said she was going to marry me. There’s a woman here who hasn’t forgotten about me. When she turns 20, I’ll be 46. Hmm, that’s nice too.

　My Christmas present to Stella was a stuffed Pokémon doll almost as big as her. For Stella’s brother, Leroy, I gave her the latest Sony digital camera. For Mom, I gave Hermes tableware and handmade Christmas candles. For Irene, I sent Prada sports shoes, and for Irene’s husband, my brother-in-law, Norman (it’s a struggle every year to choose; Norman’s annual income is several times more than mine, so he’s in a position to get anything he wants), I chose an old cigar case that I won on eBay.

　My entire Christmas budget went to my family. I lost my girlfriend, and suddenly I was family-oriented.

　Well, that’s it for this year! I was planning to spend the day with Cheryl, so I didn’t have a backup plan. It seems I’m the one who has to watch “The Mysterious Life of Bees.” I shouldn’t have said that joke. So, should I get a girlfriend just for Christmas? Of course, I was joking, but now I think it might be something to seriously consider. That being said, the only person who would be happy to have me around this time of year is my mom in Miami. All my friends have plans for Christmas, and the girls that come to mind are the ones I have in common with Paul. If I go out on a date, Paul will come up, and I’ll have to tell them what happened between us. That means I’ll have to admit how terrible a person I am.

　I don’t want to confess on a Christmas date. Is confessing this kind of thing what Sheryl means by “opening up”? If so, I’ll willingly be more closed off.

　If dating a girl doesn’t work, why not hang out with your guy friends? Find those guys in your address book who probably wouldn’t have plans for Christmas and call them.

“Hey, you’re alone too, aren’t you? How about we go for a drink now?”

　………Just thinking about it makes me shiver. Spending time with a goldfish would be a hundred times better.

　When I think about it, all the interesting things I know (stylish bars, good restaurants, fun parties and events, etc.) were all introduced to me by Paul. I wonder how much fun he has given me until now. I am surprised once again at how big a presence Paul has in my life, and at the same time, I am disappointed once again at how narrow my world is. Just as Cheryl said, on this holy night, the label of “a boring man” fits me perfectly as if it were made for me. The more I think about it, the more depressed I become.

　No. I shouldn’t stay cooped up in the house after all. This is a problem that goes beyond “who I spend time with.” It’s much better to be exposed to the outside air than to languish alone in my room. Besides, if I go outside, that thing called “Christmas” might give me a miracle.

　Of course, this is a rough argument, but theory doesn’t matter to me right now. I just need some motivation to get up and get out there. After all, a miracle is something that goes beyond theory. Just because you’ve never seen a miracle happen in your life, it’s no good assuming that one doesn’t happen. Well, that’s true up until now. I’ve never seen anything that could truly be called a miracle happen in my life. But surely it’s about time for one to happen, right?

　I grabbed my coat and stepped outside. As I ran out into the street, the doorman, Henry, forgot to say “Merry Christmas.” The gentle wind blew from the sky, passing through the skyscrapers, and by the time it reached the ground, it had turned into a deadly cold wind.

　─── Cold.

　It’s December in New York. Of course, it’s cold. A cold breeze seeps in through my neck, trying to steal my body heat. It’s as cold as the hands of a scrubby prostitute. Still, it’s better than staying in my room and watching “The Mysterious Life of Bees.” First, let’s go out to eat somewhere. A small, cozy place is best. If I wander around the city carelessly, I’ll forget what day it is. I feel like going to a Jewish or Hindu restaurant tonight. Globally, only a few countries mark this day as a national holiday.

　A very merry Christmas! I go wherever my feet take me, wherever my heart takes me. All is as God wills it. The temperature feels like absolute zero. Manhattan is in a cold wave. I’m in a cold wave. But it’s better than staying at home, what does that mean?

　As far as I can remember, the first time I felt a sense of alienation was from my own family.

　As a child, I was a spoiled brat who desperately wanted the attention of my older sister, Irene, who was nine years older than me. To my sister, who was a teenager at the time, my little brother was cute, but he must have also been a nuisance at times.

“Dean, don’t come in the room!”

　When friends came to play, Eileen would say this and lock her brother out of the room. Every time this happened, I would cry (yes, I was not only spoiled but also a crybaby), and I would curl up there, listening to Olivia Newton-John’s Physical through the door as background music and clutching monster trucks as my emotional support, until the door opened.

　Feeling that I was being left out by my sisters, I sneaked into Eileen’s room while she was at school and took revenge for being left out by drawing mustaches on Daryl Hall’s face with a felt-tip pen on a poster hanging above her bed, making it look like “Two John Oates.” Needless to say, this resulted in me being banned from Eileen’s room altogether.

　The reason why I’m telling you this story now is because I’ve begun to wonder if what I’ve been feeling, both with Cheryl and Gina, and now, is a sense of alienation. There are two of us, and I’m alone. Even if it’s an unintentional coincidence, I somehow feel like it’s not fair, and maybe it’s something that comes from my childhood experiences.

　Why am I doing this self-analysis? It makes me want to reflect. What is God trying to tell me by gifting me this coincidence? Paul is walking just a few feet away in front of me. Sparkling lights and a Santa Claus display. It’s Christmas night no matter how you look at it. I’m already starting to regret that I would have been smarter if I’d stayed home and watched “The Mysterious Life of Bees.” At the intersection of Broadway Street and Seventh Avenue, I’m watching my former best friend. They are currently passing in front of Toys R Us – yes, “they.” Two here, one there. Paul and a man as big as a cloud are walking side by side.

　Well, you made it in time for Christmas. You’ll be going to concerts and watching DVDs together. Just as Cheryl has good friends, Paul has a good boyfriend, which is good (I’m single). Being in a good relationship is always a relief (I’m single).

　Hey you, big guy! If I were five years old, I’d draw whiskers on your face with a felt-tip pen. You survived.

　Now it’s his job to make Paul laugh. I can’t do it. It’s the same as with Cheryl. I should just shut up and go away. Yes, that’s what I should do.

　Paul and his boyfriend disappear into the crowd.

　That’s enough, let’s go home. Let’s go back to our apartment and watch “The Mysterious Life of Bees”. But against my will, my body won’t move. It seems that I have forgotten the simple action of “walking”. I fixed my gaze on the area where Paul and the others were no longer visible, ignoring the flow of people and standing there like a stick.

　—This is the end. It’s the end.

　The moment I thought that, my feet suddenly remembered to move. As if the reason they had stopped earlier was because I had been compressing my movements, my feet took off like a bullet. I sprinted down Broadway Street, pushing my way through the crowds, shouting at the top of my lungs.

“Paul! Paul! Wait! Paul!”

　The worry of whether someone I knew would pass by had completely disappeared from my mind. There was no chance other than now. If I missed this chance, our relationship would truly be over.

　I just kept shouting the same name like an idiot, and after running for a few blocks, I finally caught sight of them. They were looking back at me with shocked faces. A man was running towards me, yelling on the main street of New York. That’s a surprise for anyone.

“pole!”

　It wasn’t Paul who stepped forward in response to my call. His big boyfriend silently stood between us.

“What’s up? Are you called Paul too? I’m here to talk to you about little Paul. Get out of the way, you playboy.”…He doesn’t say it out loud, but that’s pretty much what he means.

　I took a breath and said, “Paul, I want to talk to you.”

　I couldn’t see him because a muscular man in a long coat was blocking my view. “This is Dean,” I heard Paul say from behind the big man. Yes, I was Dean. I was the subject of conversation again. What an honor. Sh1t.

“Get out of the way, I have to talk to Paul…” Before I could finish my sentence, the big man suddenly grabbed me by both shoulders.

“Paul! Get going while I hold this guy!”

　Wh-what is this?!

“Quick!”

“Wa-wait a minute! I just want to talk to him!”

“Hurry! Paul! Run!”

　AM I A PERVERT!!! But one thing is clear now. This guy is not Paul’s boyfriend. The way he talks and acts. Paul would never choose a feminine man as his boyfriend.

“Paul! Do something about this guy!” Paul glanced at me, then suddenly turned his back and walked away.

“Don’t go, Paul!”

“Go away, Paul!”

“Dammit! Shut up… you… let go!!”

　I think I said before that “gays and junior high school girls are similar,” but there is one crucial difference between the two. Yes, you can probably guess the answer. It’s a strength!

“Hey, why don’t you think about his feelings too?” the big man asked. He used feminine language, but his strength was more than twice my own. I felt as if I was being squeezed in a vice, unable to move a muscle.

“Paul said he didn’t want to see you? Have you ever thought about how he felt?”

“Shut up! Shut up! Let go of me!”

The human vice looked at me with a look that said, “You’re an unbelievable, horrible man.” I turned to face Paul.

“Dammit! Paul! Are you going away?! …You’re kidding!”

　I could hear the voice losing strength. Was it the vice grip, or was it something worse?

　As I was wrapped in those big arms, I saw Paul stop. He stopped, looked up at the sky for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked back towards me at a slow pace. He was right in front of me, but he wouldn’t look at me. He whispered to the big man, “Thanks, Carl. It’s okay, let me go.”

“Carl, let him go.” Are you a detective who infiltrated a mafia hideout? What about me?

　At Paul’s command, Titan released his tight grip and set me free.

“Sorry, Carl. I have to talk to Dean, so I’ll be off for today.”

“But,” Carl trailed off, looking at Paul with concern.

“I’m fine,” said Paul.

　Yes, hurry up, Carl, before Paul changes his mind. Go if you can!

　Carl looked from me to Paul and back, then seemed to have come to some kind of understanding. He sighed and said, “Call me anytime,” before leaving.

“…Who is he? Is he your guardian?” he said, straightening the collar of his coat. His Givenchy was wrinkled after being caught by Karl.

“He cares about me. He’s much more considerate than you are. If he stopped me to say something bad about my friend, then this is it.”

“Oh, no… sorry. It’s not that. I need to talk to you…”

“Talk? What talk? We talked the other day. What else are you going to talk about?” Paul rambled on.

　What should I talk about? —I hadn’t thought about it.

　I found myself running, shouting his name, without any thought for what to do next or what to say.

　When I calmed down and paid attention to my surroundings, I noticed that people were paying attention to me. I had made a big fuss. Some people might have mistaken it for a movie shoot or something. A middle-aged man wearing a knitted hat even stopped to stare at me.

“Now, what on earth is going to happen?” We were the center of attention for bored tourists.

“That’s New York for you. Some gays were having a lovers’ quarrel on the street.” I’m sure he’ll tell stories about his travels like this when he goes back to Oklahoma or Texas.

　Feeling the gazes of others on me, I spoke to Paul.

“What can I say… It’s been a while since we last met.”

“Yeah, your hair’s grown,” Paul said coldly.

“Oh, this… my boss had to warn me. If I carry on like this, I might end up like a man stranded on a deserted island.”

　Paul didn’t laugh, he just said in a serious tone, “You should cut it.”

“You?”

　Paul shrugged at my words.

“There are other good hairdressers out there. I can introduce you to someone I trust.”

　What he meant was, “Even if you’re a customer, I never want to see you again.” Introducing me to someone is probably the minimum courtesy he can show as a professional. His kindness now feels like a pain to me.

“Paul, I…” he said, staring at the toes of his shoes and barely able to muster the words. “I… I need you… I need you…”

“Why did you say that?” Paul suddenly raised his voice, making me look up as if I had been knocked off my feet.

“Are you trying to get me to pay attention again?! Stop it!”

　It was the first time I’d heard him yell, the first time I’d seen him let out an emotional outburst, and the first time I’d ever seen him shed a tear.

“You don’t seem to understand, so I’ll say it again clearly! I’m not going to let you manipulate me anymore! ‘It has to be you? ‘ I don’t want those words! No promises, no flirting, no smiles! I don’t want anything from you!”

　Paul was in tears, and there was nothing I could do. I didn’t want him to cry, and I didn’t want to cause him any pain. If I were a painmaker to him, then all I could do was leave. I should just leave here quietly. I should leave his life. Now!

“Have you ever thought about how he feels?” Carl said. Yes, if I cared about his feelings, I shouldn’t have shown up. I knew that, so why am I still standing here? Am I still only thinking about myself?

“You make me miserable,” Paul said, his lip trembling. “You’re not interested in me. You’re nice to me, but you also push me away just as easily. I’m in too much pain to be with you anymore. I don’t want to have to suffer every time you treat me like that. It’s so stupid of me to be happy and disappointed all by myself… I know there’s no hope for me in liking a straight guy.”

　I have never felt more powerless in my life. I just stand there, arms hanging at my sides. I can’t think of anything better to do.

“I never wanted to see you again,” Paul said, without wiping away his tears. “I knew it was obvious that you were suffering like this. You were nice to me, but… I…” Paul shook his head.

　I still care about him. I still love him. But I can’t express those feelings. That’s what’s painful, Paul says.

“I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want to suffer anymore.”

　All he wants from me is to get out of his life. I can’t say the thing I want to say the most right now. So what should I do? Dammit! What should I do?!

“Paul, I don’t want to suffer either… I don’t want to suffer either,” he said calmly, in stark contrast to the emotions swirling inside his heart. “If only I could just say ‘Well then’ to you here, you know how much easier it would be. I’m suffering too. I’m suffering because of you, too.”

　This is ego. I’m venting my ego on Paul. He ruined the other person’s feelings, and then he says, “I’m the one who’s suffering”. Wow, how selfish can he be?

“What exactly are you suffering from?” Paul muttered in a voice so quiet it was hard to hear. My next words were just as quiet.

“Because you’re trying to leave me…”

“That’s why?”

“For me… that’s what’s bothering me. For the past two months, I’ve been thinking about you all the time. Even when I was dating Cheryl, I couldn’t enjoy it because I was thinking about you. In the end, I broke up with her. Oh, no, I’m not saying it was your fault… I don’t know, but even when I was with her, I thought of you. Talking to you. You were fun and easygoing… and how you understood me so well…” Paul was silent. I searched my heart hard to find the words. “It’s not like I’d die without you, but my life has become more boring since I lost you. How can I put it… It’s like nachos are good without cheese, but even better with it…”

　After much soul searching, the words that emerged were “nachos and cheese.” What kind of explanation is that? Is it even an explanation at all?

“…I don’t even know myself,” I sighed, raising my hands to my sides in surrender. “No, I know what I’ve done. I…hurt you. I caused you irreparable damage. This is the worst…I hurt you, and then I…I know for a fact that you don’t need me…”

　The more I say it, the more miserable I feel. “I hurt Paul.” “Paul doesn’t need me.” It couldn’t be any clearer. If self-loathing could erase my existence, I would have disappeared a long time ago.

　Paul is silent. I’ve run out of words. I’ve said everything I could. So this is what it means to “open your heart”? All the words have flown out the open door. There’s nothing more that can be done. It’s all over.

　Once I’d completely let out all my emotions, it felt like the surroundings had suddenly become quiet. A couple walking close together to escape the cold. A middle-aged man holding a bag from F.A.O. Schwarz as a present. Jingle bells were ringing from somewhere. That’s right, today was Christmas Eve.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

　That’s what Paul said. We always realize the same thing at the same moment. I can’t believe it’s still alive at this point.

“Today is a special day, so I’m going to do something good.”

　Paul looked straight at me.

“───I forgive you.”

　Paul said quietly but clearly.

“I forgive you.”

　His hand touches my cheek. His clear light blue eyes stare into my eyes.

“Thank you,” I tried to say. I wanted to say it. I should have said it. But the words wouldn’t come.

　Paul’s fingers gently wiped my cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Dean…don’t cry,” he said, tears filling his eyes again.

“You,” I sniffled, “Paul, you shouldn’t cry.”

“Your tears caught my attention.”

“Everyone’s watching, you know?”

“Everyone’s probably bored.”

　We were the center of attention for bored tourists. “This is New York. Two faggots having a lovers’ quarrel in the street and then making up.” That’s the kind of travel story we’ll tell back in Oklahoma or Texas.

　Paul whispered, “Let’s go home…”

　We went back together to the same apartment.

Epilogue: What happened after that?

　On Christmas night, Paul cut my hair in my room. My sideburns are the perfect length. Now I look handsome again.

　The haircut was his Christmas present, and my present was a massage. With Paul’s guidance, I tried my hand at shiatsu, which turned out to be less difficult than I’d thought. And it turns out that massaging someone’s shoulder blades is a lot more fun than having them massaged.

　We’re back to eating pizza, drinking beer, and watching Monty Python together. Events, concerts, meals, lending and borrowing DVDs. It’s a new year, but we still don’t have a girlfriend. But that doesn’t mean we’re lacking something in life.

　I get a call from Mom.

“Don’t just hang out with your girlfriends, come to Miami sometime.”

　To the usual line, I promise, “I’ll go there soon.”

“Oh really? If you feel lonely, you can bring your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll take him. He’s a guy, though.”

“A guy friend? Well…”

　A mom living in Miami. After “Well,” she must be trying to say, “I hope he’s not your boyfriend.”

　I hang up the phone without answering my mother’s silent question. I still have some time before I go to Miami. Who knows if I’ll get a girlfriend or a boyfriend in the meantime? Who knows what the future holds?

　A friend called from the kitchen.

“Dean, I’m going to make some tea. Do you want some?”

　I will respond.

“Yes, please.”

　Manhattan is home to many dramas: love, betrayal, tears, s*x, and regret.

　Just because you can’t find these words in your life doesn’t mean it’s lacking in drama. There is still drama in our lives, it’s just that the drama we’re experiencing right now is a bit more leisurely.

　The steam from the pot and the smell of tea. The scene is a friend making tea. To an observer, this may be a very boring drama. So why say “Stay tuned for next week”? No, but this greeting still makes sense.

“Stay tuned for next week!” Who is this phrase for?

　From what I’ve come to realise, these are not words for the observer, but words that those who believe in happiness say to their future.

　I have promised to go to a concert with Paul next week. I’m looking forward to it. This moment and the very near future. There is always only a short time available. And then the next week, and the week after that, and before long we’ll both be old men, and Paul will look fifty and I’ll look a hundred.

　Paul comes to me with a cup of tea in his hand. Tasting hot tea is one of the things I look forward to in the future.

　Life is full of unpredictable dramas. A scriptwriter called life writes a story that no one can predict. There is the next week to wait for. There is the future to come. The happiness of looking forward to it is always available to us.