BIG CITY DICKENS, AND FADING LOVE LIGHTS, A Short Story Of Intimacy

I got engaged and followed my future across the country. We met while I was an English major nursing a writer’s dream after an Army tour.

She graduated and moved home with our wedding plans, so I dropped out and followed.

Then she dropped me.

Instead of hanging around New Jersey for a second chance, I made a writer’s choice and moved up the road to New York City. 

I was still close enough for a self-demoted fiancé who needed a safe boyfriend. We went backward instead of following the ‘moving on’ rule.

It got awkward after I met a woman at a dinner party in my Brooklyn apartment. She lived a few subway stops away, a lady friend of my lady roommate who’d told me about some problems before the evening got started.

“I’ve known Dora for a couple of years, and we’ve talked about her intimacy issues,” my roommate said.

“Intimacy issues?” I asked. 

“She can’t help herself from sleeping with men who pay attention to her,” roomie said. 

Meeting someone new felt like a step in the moving on direction. I liked Dora before we’d met; I liked her even more after roomie broke the girl-code by sharing their secret.

I could tell Dora about my marriage plans gone bad, she could talk about her intimacy issues. I could pay attention to that.  

My roomie knew the secret of staying safe in the New York subway as a woman: Don’t take showers, don’t wash your hair, and don’t wear nice clothes. Her friend turned out to be a stylish woman with a slight chill.

I shared my slow-motion breakup tragedy with her

“I’m living here the rest of my life,” I said. “My story will be, ‘broke up, moved to New York, wrote about falling in love with the city.’ Just like that.”

“Or,” Dora said, “you found the cheapest place to rent, a job that barely pays, and you’re trapped here like the rest of us. A writer could work with those conditions.”

“My new life story: I spewed romanticized crap to a new friend, got it slapped down by her cute hand, and liked it,” I said. “Thank you for the insight.”

After dinner and clean up, everyone said goodnight. Dora was last to go.

“I’ll walk you to the subway,” I said. 

Since it was dark, and it was Brooklyn, any walk at night felt heroic. It was also taking a shot with a New York girl who’d probably heard every shot in the book.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said with a frosty look. We were face to face near the front door.

“Okay, then. Nice to meet you, Dora,” I said, holding a fake bad-start smile, and her coat. She broke into a fake hurt-face pout.

“You’re funny,” she said, and left.

With Dora gone, the roommate grilled me

“Why did you ask that? No one does that here. We don’t walk anyone to the subway. This isn’t junior high. She doesn’t need someone to carry her books. I told you she has intimacy issues. Why not just ask her for sex in the hallway? At least she left before you could make your big move,” she said.

“Big move. Down the street and back isn’t much, but that’s all I’ve got planned,” I said. “I’d do the same for you.” 

“I hardly need an escort,” she said. “You need one more than me.”

I heard a knock on the door and answered it. Dora stood there with a smile warm enough to melt any icey intimacy issues. 

“If you’d still like to walk me to the subway?” she said. 

I grabbed my keys, ignored my roommate’s glare, and we walked down the hall to the elevator, out to the sidewalk, and up the block.

“How far away are you?” I asked.

“Five stops,” she said.

“Is that a long way?”

“Come along and learn the neighborhood,” she said.

“I’m a fast learner,” I said.

“New York is a big classroom to study,” Dora said. “Do you really think I have cute hands?”

We took the train to her stop, talking and bumping against each other on the seats, and walked the dark sidewalk to her apartment building.

She invited me in

The place was ordered and organized and loaded with books. She had a full set of Dickens.

“You like Dickens,” I said.

“I’ve read all of Dickens,” she said. “Do know what else I like?”

She took her coat off and laid it on a chair, then stood in front of me and slipped my coat off.

“The best of times and the worst of times?” I said as she pulled my coat sleeve.

“I love Dickens, but I love the first part more,” she smiled with a grinding hug.

“The first part?”

“The part before the -ens in Dickens,” she said.

“Oh. Well let’s look around. We might find one.”

A couple of weeks later she met my ex-fiancé at my apartment. After they talked I had to find a new place to live.

New York City was overcrowded by one too many:

Me.