Swim Butterfly

(Note: at the beginning of chapter 1, it said, "my story", meaning a story I wrote and published elsewhere for a year - Swim, Butterfly is fiction, not my personal story!!!)

Just a Cup of Coffee

A gust of chill air nearly knocks me over, clearing some of the wooziness away. Jimmy's a couple of steps ahead, diagonal to me. "Come on. I won't bite," he smiles, nodding his head towards the street.

Shame. I take a breath and step it up to catch up to him, "So, uh,"

"Jimmy."

I laugh, "Yeah, I know! I didn't forget your name! So, Jimmy, how long have you lived in New York?"

He slows his pace to match mine, walking with hands slipped casually into his pockets, "Forever. I grew up in Brooklyn, moved to Manhattan about ten years ago. Have you been to New York before?" Is there a slight roll in his Rs?

"A few times. I don't know it well. I should visit more often since I have access to the train. I go to Philly sometimes, instead."

"You like Philly"

"Yeah, I do. I worked there for a few years until I started a family, then I quit work. Sometimes I wish I hadn't." Better hope June and Rudy never hear that.

He chuckles, "Wish you hadn't what? Quit your job or started a family?"

I glance at him and smirk. I don't answer, "Were you ever married, or have any kids?"

He tosses his head back. "Married? No, and no kids that I know of. I'm very careful," he looks at me, eyes narrowed.

"Hmm, I wasn't careful, and that's how I started a family!" I guffaw, clapping a hand to my mouth.

"It seems to have worked out for you, though?" he asks.

"For the most part. I bitch a lot, but the way I see it, God gave me a kick in the ass, you know, to keep a forward momentum in life," I shrug, kicking a plastic cup out of the way.

"Mixed feelings. Yeah, it happens." He reaches over and glides his hand over the back of my head. I barely feel it, yet the touch ignites a tingle down the small of my back.

We walk along, frequently under the cover of planks and tarps in this City of Scaffolding. I note every crack and darkened spot of old gum on the sidewalk, as if there's no one else around. Faceless bodies walk by and beyond us; the only face I see is Jimmy's, and all I hear is his voice as he tells me about concerts at Carnegie Hall, the origin of the Russian Tea Room, some history of Central Park. The more information he imparts, the more animated he becomes.

We stroll past the alabaster grandeur of the Plaza Hotel, cross broad Fifth Avenue, and eventually approach charming Paley Park. The rushing sound of the wall fountain reminds me of a rainy day.

I take in the city at night while a breeze plays with my hair, "Hey, thanks for showing an old broad around."

He nearly smiles, but nods instead. I want to touch the back of his smooth head. No! He starts talking about something and I turn my attention to the waterfall, mesmerized by the pearly drops of water falling and reappearing, over and over.

"So, what do you think of that?" he asks.

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry, I drifted off a moment. Think about what?"

He moves closer, "Hey, look at me."

I do. He leans against the iron gate, head tilted. "You worried about anything?"

I shake my head, "No, and you're not boring! I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression."

"And I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression. Come on, let's see some more."

I reluctantly let go of the iron gate, "Okay."

We walk, and without thinking, I link my arm in his. We pass an older, smartly-dressed couple. The woman's eyes briefly meet Jimmy's. He nods slightly. I sneak a quick second look at her. I doubt that's his mother, but she nearly could be.

After the couple is out of earshot, Jimmy asks, "So, what would you like to talk about? I've got all night, and I talked your ear off already." He reaches over with his other hand and gives my arm a soft pinch, "Your turn."

Tightening my arm around his, I repeat his question, "What would I like to talk about? I haven't heard that in a while." I watch the toes of my sneakers passing over cracks in the concrete.

"Funny, that's like asking what I want for dinner. In this vast world of food, if I'm put on the spot, I can never think of anything," I frown.

"Or you revert to a few oldies but goodies," he says, with some emphasis on the Ds.

"You could say that. That's something to talk about--why do people stick to the same old things even when they're bored shitless and sick of it and want to branch out? Or escape." Jimmy looks at me, brows raised. I wave my hand in the air, "Just kidding. Let's continue." I look away, blinking hard.

"Ah, well, why do you think people stick to what they know?"

"I don't know. I could give all the pat answers--fear of the unknown, laziness, lack of time."

"Okay, but let's not have a pat night." He leans close to my ear, "It's fear of decisions, by the way."

True.

He continues, "Anyway, yours was a vague answer, dull and stagnant, so let me ask a specific question so we can get a specific answer. Let's say, for example, instead of ending the night with polite and forgettable goodbyes, I end up in your hotel room, in your bed?"

I nearly stop and start withdrawing my arm, but Jimmy keeps a firm grip and keeps walking. "Come on, move forward, explore. You want out of a rut, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't have been sitting in a bar by yourself."

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it. He's right. We walk on. He's mercifully silent for a few moments, then asks, "Do you feel comfortable with your husband?"

"Of course, why?"

"Do you have conversations like this with him?"

"No, not really."

"Why not?" Jimmy continues probing.

"I don't know. He'd just think I'm crazy. I mean, I think he thinks I'm crazy anyways, but he's my husband. He's there to fix things, not philosophize. He's a good man and I've tried to talk to him about different stuff over the years, but we just never seem to get on the same page."

"Huh, you can't get utility and philosophy out of your husband, crazy Caroline?"

"Apparently not the way I've tried. I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't treat him like a toolbox. I don't even write him honey-do lists. We just don't connect on all levels. Or on few levels." I make a raspberry. "Or on no levels."

Gusts of cold, greasy air twist my hair into twine. Fewer honks punctuate the air. Fewer people bob along before and past us, outlines of their scents and scraps of their conversations disintegrating in the air, torn apart by the breeze and replaced by another outline, like ghostly, abandoned stencils in disappearing ink. Don't let go of me, of my arm.

Jimmy clears his throat, "So, why'd you get married?"

I snap back to attention. I snuff and smile, "Well, Pete and I were dating for a while, then I got knocked up, so we got married. Seemed like the right thing to do. It's working out okay. I mean, we were older when we met, so we really didn't have much else to do but start a family. We had our education and careers, we traveled and played the field a little. It wasn't like a baby was going to get in the way of anything. It was a natural course of action."

"Two kids--June and Rudy," he smiles a little, looking down at the ground before him as we walk. "I think you enjoy the unanswered questions in life. Keeps you busy between wiping noses and washing dishes," he stops and turns me to face him, "but there's gotta be more, right?"

He puts his arms around me, his hands rest on the small of my back, pulling our hips closer. I tense up, ready to push him away, but don't.

"You must be hungry," he says. I am. "And it's getting cold. Let's go get a bite."

My heart jumps and I hope we haven't meandered close to wherever the hell he lives. He releases my waist, takes my hand, and leads me briskly a few more blocks and turns a corner to an Irish pub. My stomach instantly settles, and he looks back at me with a smirk.

Holding the door open, Jimmy ushers me from the chilly, dark outdoors into the yeasty, golden air of the pub. My cheeks tingle, looking rosy in the reflection of a mirror along the wall. I look at Jimmy. He guides me to a seat at the end of the bar, tended by a youngish guy with dark hair and a soul patch.

"Hey, how you doin', Jimmy? G&T?" The bartender doesn't even look at me.

"Nope. Two pints of Stella and a basket of fries, please." Jimmy counters.

"Gotcha!"

Jimmy and I spend the next hour chatting, sipping beer, and gnawing fries. I tell him about my hobbies of gardening, reading, art, and languages as well as writing, and that I hate laundry, dishes and dust. Jimmy confesses that he doesn't cook much, has been spending a lot of time considering his future, likes to read, and speaks a little Russian and Spanish. During our conversation, a handsome dark-skinned man and woman pass by, saying hi to Jimmy but don't stop to chat. I love the attention he pours on, his eyes on mine and never interrupting me. Turns out Jimmy didn't bring his phone with him, either. Tonight's 100% human, 0% digital. I can't remember the last night like that.

I nearly take another sip of beer, but remember to pace myself, "So, Jimmy, do I detect a slight accent?"

He smiles and cocks his head, "Perhaps. Why?"

"Just curious. I alway wonder where people come from."

"Me? Brooklyn, like I said. Little Russia. I'm mostly Russian, a little Irish and Haitian. That's about all I know. What about you?"

"Western European mutt breed. I guess after a few generations, it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"I don't know. You still seem to care," he says, "why is that?"

"I guess it's like putting together a puzzle, identifying facial features and figuring out where people are from."

"Huh. Do you read art?"

"Read art? What do you mean?" I ask.

"It's sort of the same thing you're talking about. Lines, tones, themes--common threads that talk to each other through time and culture, you know? No one piece of artwork stands totally alone 'cause somewhere, somehow, it relates to another piece of artwork."

"Like intertextuality in literature."

"Inter-what?" he grins.

"You heard what I said. You know what it means, too!" I slap his knee.

He shakes his head, then gently wipes the corner of my mouth with a napkin. I eat another French fry. I'm glad he ordered fries--good munchie food and clean to eat. No messy, splashy sauces or shit like that, because nothing's more embarrassing than eating in front of someone on a first date. Oops, this is not a date.

Jimmy looks at me for a moment. "Your lipstick faded. We'll get you a different shade, maybe a rosy pink, to match the pink in your scarf."

"Just nothing too red--it will clash with my yellowy teeth. I'm a die-hard coffee drinker with no intentions of quitting," I smile, tight-lipped.

He looks at me from beneath his brow. "You really know how to charm a guy, don't you? No wonder you didn't get married until you had one foot in the grave."

"Oh, ha ha."

He leans in, his hand glancing over my knee. "Just kidding. Let's get out of here. Duane Reed's around the corner."

"Who's Duane Reed?"

"Oh, come on! It's a drugstore, newcomer! I thought you told me you've been to New York before."

"Oh, yeah, like Gangreen's."

"Gang...? Walgreen's, I get it. Funny you are," he smirks, nodding his head while he counts out some cash for the bill. I chip in a twenty. He looks at me, shrugs, and puts in the twenty. With a quick wave goodbye to the bartender, we head back into the wild, fluid night.

***

Bright white lights of the drug store highlight every busy body milling about at this late hour. Punk rockers purchase peanuts and red Gatorade, and Wow! I haven't seen a real Mohawk since the 80s, and purple, no less! A nocturnal world, vibrating and alive long after I'm usually asleep. I feel like I walk on air above the muffled sounds, while Jimmy, tall, shoulders thrown back, takes me by the hand. His face is the only thing in focus; everything else around me blurs.

"Ah, here!" he says. We stop at a lipstick display. His icy blues study my lips and my face, then he runs his fingers back and forth along the rows of lipsticks.

"This is weird." I mutter.

He frowns, "What? Haven't you ever let a man pick out your makeup?"

"No! I hardly wear it anyways."

"I know, I can tell," he replies, still surveying.

"Really?" I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs, "Sure. I know these things. Okay, here, stay still and stop pouting. Look at me and part your lips as if you're about to say something, but spare me and don't," he grins.

He unwraps a tube of rosy lipstick, "Dusty rose, for a dusty old broad," he chuckles. His body bent into a sort of crooked Z, he deftly applies the lipstick, his eyes totally focused on his work.

"There," he straightens up and steps back, looking at me, "One more thing." He grabs my face and kisses me hard, pulls back, and smiles. He wipes a smudge of lipstick from my upper lip with his thumb,"Let's go."

My knees go weak, my lips bee-stung as he pulls me towards the exit, "But don't we have to..." I protest.

"No! I have to pee." Jimmy tugs me to the front of the store, the automatic door growling open. I suppose the mirrors and cameras don't have time to catch up with Jimmy.

***

Out on the street, Jimmy switches hands with me. I feel a small, hard tube pressed into my sweaty palm.

"Jimmy, wow! You're a bad boy."

He smiles and shrugs, "Lady, you have no idea. Come on, let's get a cup of coffee."

Good choice. Lord knows I don't need any more booze, although I haven't reached max capacity. I slip the tube of lipstick into my pocket and give it a pat.

We turn right off of 2nd Avenue, not sure which street. In the rush to get out of the cold with Jimmy, I didn't look at the street signs. Fewer stores, more apartments. Keeping pace now with Jimmy's stride, a stiff wind tossing my hair, I keep an eye out for a coffee shop. I don't see any.

Jimmy stops in front of a nondescript glass door, unlocks it, and steps inside. "Just a cup of coffee. I didn't say where," he smiles, holding out his hand. I want to take a step back. But it's cold out, and I'm lost, and he looks so good. I take his hand and step over the threshold.