My Favorite Midlife Crisis Read Online Free
Author: Toby Devens
hair. And I’m back in circulation.’ Do you think this sends the message that I’m available?”
This was interesting enough to distract me from Stan and Brad, now yakking it up with the sculptor of this culinary menagerie—the guy whose face was on the front of the program.
“You’re not old,” I said reflexively. “And yes it sends the message. You’re radiating availability. Men are going to drop like flies.” Suddenly, a wave of vertigo washed over me, the kind that swamps you when you’re losing your bearings. It was disorienting that Kat of all people was paying attention to her appearance, trawling for men. And Stan had exploded out of the closet with Brad. Was I the only one stuck in the muck of my old life? “You look great, I’m just surprised. You haven’t messed with your hair for years.”
“I dyed my hair because I was so fucking cold,” she said. And when she told the story, it made sense. She’d been out Friday night as the fifth wheel with two other couples. They’d gone to Ford’s Theater in D.C. and the air conditioning had been on full blast so that even the sweater she’d brought wasn’t enough. One of the women had whispered about how cold it was and her husband removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then the other husband had done the same. “And there was no one to drape me,” Kat said wistfully. “If Ethan were alive, I would have had a jacket. But I sat there shivering for two acts. Not just from cold either. I realized how goddamned alone I am. And decided to do something about it. The hair is a first step. What do you think?”
I told her it was a brilliant first step. That I was proud of her. That the restored darkness brought out the violet of her eyes.
“Not violet. Periwinkle.” It was the sculptor, Lee Bagdasarian, who’d come up behind us. “Eloquent eyes.” He was young. Younger, anyway. Early forties. Interesting slash handsome. Roman gladiator nose and a cowlick of glossy hair I wanted to lovingly smooth.
“Eloquent show,” Kat fired back. “I really like your work.” He made a modest demi dip and smiled at both of us. “You’re Gwyn and you’re Kat.” And then the eyes veered off me. For good.
“Stan Berke tells me you’re a fiber artist,” he said to Kat. “That you showed at the Clayton.” They talked weaving for ten minutes while I hung around like a potholder to avoid the Stan and Brad Show. Kat told Lee how she especially admired his hippopotamus made of colanders, strainers, and cheese slicers.
“Have you seen the plate-ypus?” he asked her. Just her. “He’s got a lot of style, this guy. Come on, I’ll show you.” She lifted an eyebrow at me. I inched a tiny nod of approval, like a mom sending her daughter off to the prom. He steered her with a hand on her back. Very intimate for a new friend.
And that is how Kat met Lee on the day she sent out her first signal and why I slogged home by myself through the wet streets of Baltimore.
***
I live eight floors up in Waterview, a condominium building in downtown Baltimore. Stan and I moved here after the boys left for college. It was perfect for the two of us. Light-filled and low-maintenance, it has a huge living room window that sweeps over a panorama of the Harbor. I always close the curtains before I leave the apartment just so I can open them to the magnificent view when I return. The dazzling sunsets make my eyes water with pleasure. Even on that rainy August Sunday, just beyond my terrace, gulls lifted into an opalescent sky. So calming. Like a Japanese painting. I watched for a few minutes before turning to the winking red light of my answering machine.
Message 1. Sylvie, my dad’s companion. No hello. She barreled right into “Your father thinks he’s back in Norway. He thinks he’s seven years old and I’m his sister Margrit. He’s been pulling my hair all day. We need to talk, Dr. Berke.”
Message 2. Dan Rosetti, my father’s geriatrician,
This was interesting enough to distract me from Stan and Brad, now yakking it up with the sculptor of this culinary menagerie—the guy whose face was on the front of the program.
“You’re not old,” I said reflexively. “And yes it sends the message. You’re radiating availability. Men are going to drop like flies.” Suddenly, a wave of vertigo washed over me, the kind that swamps you when you’re losing your bearings. It was disorienting that Kat of all people was paying attention to her appearance, trawling for men. And Stan had exploded out of the closet with Brad. Was I the only one stuck in the muck of my old life? “You look great, I’m just surprised. You haven’t messed with your hair for years.”
“I dyed my hair because I was so fucking cold,” she said. And when she told the story, it made sense. She’d been out Friday night as the fifth wheel with two other couples. They’d gone to Ford’s Theater in D.C. and the air conditioning had been on full blast so that even the sweater she’d brought wasn’t enough. One of the women had whispered about how cold it was and her husband removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then the other husband had done the same. “And there was no one to drape me,” Kat said wistfully. “If Ethan were alive, I would have had a jacket. But I sat there shivering for two acts. Not just from cold either. I realized how goddamned alone I am. And decided to do something about it. The hair is a first step. What do you think?”
I told her it was a brilliant first step. That I was proud of her. That the restored darkness brought out the violet of her eyes.
“Not violet. Periwinkle.” It was the sculptor, Lee Bagdasarian, who’d come up behind us. “Eloquent eyes.” He was young. Younger, anyway. Early forties. Interesting slash handsome. Roman gladiator nose and a cowlick of glossy hair I wanted to lovingly smooth.
“Eloquent show,” Kat fired back. “I really like your work.” He made a modest demi dip and smiled at both of us. “You’re Gwyn and you’re Kat.” And then the eyes veered off me. For good.
“Stan Berke tells me you’re a fiber artist,” he said to Kat. “That you showed at the Clayton.” They talked weaving for ten minutes while I hung around like a potholder to avoid the Stan and Brad Show. Kat told Lee how she especially admired his hippopotamus made of colanders, strainers, and cheese slicers.
“Have you seen the plate-ypus?” he asked her. Just her. “He’s got a lot of style, this guy. Come on, I’ll show you.” She lifted an eyebrow at me. I inched a tiny nod of approval, like a mom sending her daughter off to the prom. He steered her with a hand on her back. Very intimate for a new friend.
And that is how Kat met Lee on the day she sent out her first signal and why I slogged home by myself through the wet streets of Baltimore.
***
I live eight floors up in Waterview, a condominium building in downtown Baltimore. Stan and I moved here after the boys left for college. It was perfect for the two of us. Light-filled and low-maintenance, it has a huge living room window that sweeps over a panorama of the Harbor. I always close the curtains before I leave the apartment just so I can open them to the magnificent view when I return. The dazzling sunsets make my eyes water with pleasure. Even on that rainy August Sunday, just beyond my terrace, gulls lifted into an opalescent sky. So calming. Like a Japanese painting. I watched for a few minutes before turning to the winking red light of my answering machine.
Message 1. Sylvie, my dad’s companion. No hello. She barreled right into “Your father thinks he’s back in Norway. He thinks he’s seven years old and I’m his sister Margrit. He’s been pulling my hair all day. We need to talk, Dr. Berke.”
Message 2. Dan Rosetti, my father’s geriatrician,
Readers choose
Mary Logue
Francine Prose
Predators
C. W. Nightly
Kay Hooper
Bev Stout
Meaghan Rauscher
Tania Chandler
Ken McCoy