Date Night On The Ave

1. Phoebe’s Speakeasy

She said yes. For whatever God forsaken reason, she said yes. After everything I didn’t think she’d even consider it, but something about my plans must be appealing enough. Or maybe she feels it too. She knows there’s still something between us still. Something worth exploring. If nothing else, she deserves closure for this tangled relationship, and the nice evening I promised. But who knows, maybe she’s just entertaining me. A gesture for a friend, not the need to see a lover. This is all I could think about as I left my apartment and went downstairs.

We met outside, on the stoop of our building. She had beat me there, and was leaning against the wall reading from a small novel. She was wearing her usual attire: a green sweater, jeans, Converse, and those nerdy ass glasses.

“Kept you waiting huh?” I said as I came out the door. Stupid, stupid, not funny.

“What?” Amber asked, putting her book down.

“Nothing. Uh, you doin’ okay? How’d your day go?”

“It was alright, what about you?”

“It was fine. I got some work done, watched a movie, read a little. Typical day,” I told her as we started walking.

“That’s good. Whatcha watch?’

“Kong Vs Godzilla, then Man Yuk again,”

“God you’re a nerd. How were they?” 

“Kong Vs Godzilla was goofy, not really worth talking about. Just a silly monster movie. Man Yuk, easily the better watch of the night. It’s so cute and romantic. If Maggie Cheung was my wife, I’d also record her brushing her teeth,”

“Of course you would,” she said with a smirk.

“It’s a sweet film, really. You’d love it. I’ll show it to you some time, if you ever wanna come over,” I told her.

“Yeah… yeah that’d be nice,” 

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I took looks at her freely. Occasionally, she snatched glances of me. As we went up the ave, surrounded by the sounds of the night, I could feel myself begin to panic. Something felt off and wrong. My shirt was a little too loose, my watch was too tight, there was a cut on my lip. All that came to mind were problems that I couldn’t solve, and things I had no control over. Not to mention Amber, and all the tension between us. She already didn’t wanna be there, and if I didn’t do things perfectly, it might destroy what we had left of a relationship.

“Maybe that’s it,” I thought to myself, “Just nerves. No sixth sense for danger, no unspoken bitterness. This is what a first date is supposed to feel like. Just breathe,”

I did my best to let go of my stress as our walk came to an end.

There was no bouncer at the Speakeasy. It was closed for our dinner, courtesy of Phoebe.

“Is Phoebe in today?” Amber asked as I walked up to the door.

“Yeah we’re good, it’s open. C'mon, you’ll see,” I said, taking her hand. It was soft and warm, and her grip was strong from moving books and boxes the last couple years. We went through the door and down the stairs together.

I led her down into the lounge, beaming as I awaited her reaction. Lilac and lavender hit our noses gently, setting the scene for what laid underneath. The room was dotted with candles and flower bouquets. The mood lightning was set to a soft purple, and Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue was spinning in a turntable on stage.. All the tables had been moved, except for one in the middle of the room. It was dressed and set, with one hibiscus sitting off to the side. As she entered, Amber looked more stunned than happy. I didn’t know how to take it. I was insecure in an instant, but now that I had pulled out the big surprise, I had to keep going. 

“So?” I asked, trying to rectify my nerves with some confirmation.

“Oh my God, I love it. This is beautiful Marcus, really,” she said, with an astoundment that couldn’t help but sound forced.

“Good,” I said with a fading sadness. I gestured toward the table and started walking to my seat. As we sat down, Phoebe began to bring over two platters of food.

“For the lady, chicken alfredo with garlic bread. For the gentleman, boneless wings and curly fries,” she said as she got to the table. She set the plates down and lifted off the metal lids. As she lifted them, it turned out that I had Amber’s meal, and she had mine.

“Oh I-”

“Should we just?’

‘Yeah c'mon,” We both stood up and switched seats. As I sat back down, I mouthed the word dumbass to Phoebe. She whispered back “bastard”.

Dinner started off fine after that. She enjoyed her meal, and I enjoyed the wings. She tried to explain that having buffalo breath was a bad idea, but I had brought mints and water just in case. We cracked a couple jokes between bites, and talked to her about the short films I had been sporadically watching the past few nights. She raved about the latest poetry collections she was reading, and we talked about one of Bradbury’s short stories. The whole time she seemed like her usual self, but I couldn’t help but notice the tremor in her hands. She always looked off when she was nervous, like a clone trying its best to act like Amber. The entire meal she couldn’t hold eye contact with me. Instead she would glance at me, snatching looks again, or look past me at the stage in the back. I thought it was shyness, but the more distant she became, the more I could feel my stomach twist and turn. It was trying to tell me something important, preparing me for pain, but I wouldn’t hear it. I couldn’t believe it.

“She’s ready to leave,” I thought. It’s time to wrap up dinner. You can salvage things from there,”

“So where are we headed after this?” I asked her with a smile. It would be the last time I did that night.

“Well I… oh I just…” she trailed off.

“I’m just gonna say it, because there’s no way to make this easy. And if I don’t do this now, its just gonna get harder and harder. I don’t want you anymore Marcus. I’m sorry I really am. I thought maybe doing this would make me feel something, or it would stir something in me, but.. but it isn’t, and for your sake I can’t act like it is,” she paused to wipe tears from her eyes, and I felt insulted. I was the one that should be fucking crying.

“But you don’t want me either, not really,” she continued, “You just want to make up for your mistake, but you can’t change the past, and you don’t owe me anything. It’s okay Marcus.”

I looked back at Phoebe. I was the one crying now, bawling like a child. She was pretending to clean a glass, but I could tell from her frown that she was shocked too. With a solemn look, Amber stood up and started walking away.

“I… I’m sorry…” she turned to say in the doorway, “You can come by The Hollow any time, but I can’t… I don’t wanna hurt you.” And with that she left.

“It’s too late Amber. You’ve gutted me,” I wanted to yell, but that wouldn’t have helped either of us. My alternative then was to hobble over to the bar and take a seat.

“I don’t care what you give me, just make it strong,” I said. Phoebe put her stuff down, then reached under the bar. She set a cold, unlabeled Sprite in front of me. I gave a small chuckle as I started to break down. She put a hand on my shoulder as my tears splashed against the counter.

Maybe I’m stupid. Or delusional. Maybe I’m just lonely. Who knows. She let me down as well as she could, but nothing ever really softens the impact of a heartbreak. I should have seen it coming. She was never going to take me back. She had moved on long before tonight, and the words were just sitting on the tip of her tongue, ready to leap. The date was for me; she was entertaining me, pitying me until it became unbearable.

Back home, after an hour on my living room floor, I decided that self loathing wasn’t going to solve anything. It was times like this I wished that I had a decent vice. A cigarette might’ve been soothing, and a bottle would make a nice centerpiece. Without either, I decided to retire to my bed. Maybe the world would be gentler the next day.

2. The Rosary

There’s a light snow as I walk up the street, my hands buried in my pockets to retain some warmth. Like usual I have no real plans, no destination, just time and loneliness. Things haven’t been so bad lately. The book is in the hands of an editor, Charles has agreed to do the cover, and I beat my high score on Galaga the night before. I bought some new books, found new music, everything is good. But even still, something is missing. Something has been lost. I knew then and there what it was. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

Without any real plans, I resolved to visiting The Rosary. It’s a quaint little spot, somewhere I like to go where I won’t be bothered. I step inside and wave to the cashier. He waves back and grabs a menu.

“How’s it going Marcus?” he asks. He sets the menu down, then sits across from me.

“I’m okat I just… need to think. What about you man,”

“Oh I’m good, yeah,” he responded, “Just wrapping up a crossword. Whad’ya ya want to eat?”

“Some mozzarella sticks if you got em, and a milkshake. Here, for the bill, and your tip,” I handed him thirty bucks and slid the menu over.

“Gotcha, I’ll be right back,” he got up and went to make my food. I took a breath, then collapsed on the table.

Things had been hard. Really hard. I wasn’t immobile, and surprisingly I hadn’t locked myself away in my apartment, though I had been distant. I’d been using the building washer instead of going to see Leonard, I’d been steering clear of Phoebe’s, but that didn’t stop her from coming over to shoot the shit. Charles has been leaving kind notes on my desk at work too. It’s appreciated, but not enough. I just needed time, space, maybe a one night stand but Phoebe said that would come with its own set of problems. I would have argued with her if I had the energy.

I just hate being alone. No one to hold, or ramble to about the things I love most. No one to look forward to at the end of the day. No one to dream about, nothing to hope for. The book kept me going of course. I loved it like a child, and it gave me purpose when I needed it most. But I needed something more. If not love, if not romance, then a connection. Something new and real.

As pity washed over me, suddenly the door swung open. Like a freight train, she ran over my thoughts and sent my mind racing. I caught myself staring, and looked back down in shame, but the image of her thoughtful face stuck with me. She was a bit pale. Her hair fell in black waves, with scattered streaks of grey in it. Round glasses sat above small patches of freckles, which decorated round full cheeks.

She wore a soft yellow sweater and black jeans. Her dirty Converse barely made a sound as they hit the carpet, though I noticed her every move. Looking around, it was easy to see that we were the only ones there. She could have sat anywhere in the restaurant, but it only took her a moment to walk to my booth and slide in across from me. 

“Do you want anything?” Dan asked promptly as she got comfortable.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she said. Then without hesitating, she reached down and took one of my cheese sticks. I was sorta mad, but it was too funny for me to really be pissed at.

“Uh.. well alright then, you two enjoy,”

I looked at her with confusion and an air of longing. With a blink I came to my senses, and watched her take another bite of my food. She sat down and looked me in the eyes, then with her own blink she came to her sense.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh?” I repeated.

“Jeez this is awkward. I thought you were someone else,” 

“Who else would I have been?” I asked, still watching her eat my food.

“I don’t know, an old friend from college or something. Damn, these are pretty good,” As she finished the cheese stick, she reached for another. I slid the plate back before she could grab another, and looked at her with playful eyes.

“If you’re hungry I could just buy you something. Or if we’re gonna share, at least tell me your name,”

“Tamara. Spelled like it sounds,” she told me.

“Well I’m Marcus. Also spelled how it sounds,” I slid the plate back towards her, then took a sip from my shake. Across the table I was catching whiffs of her perfume. She smelled sweet, like a face full of berries and flowers. My heart kicked my chest, forgetting what rhythm it was supposed to beat at.

“You don’t live around here do you?” I asked her. Something in the back of my head was screaming at me, urging that I learn more about her.

“No I do not, but I’ve been through here a few times,”

“Well, what do you think?” 

She thought for a moment, then said, “It’s beautiful. The people are nice. I don’t know, like I said I don’t come here often. Do you?”

“I live here, so yeah. I mean a lot of people I know live on this street. They work here, eat here. It’s home in a lot of regards,” I told her.

“Huh. That’s sweet. You’re a-” she began.

“I’m what?” I asked.

“You’re just a sweet guy is all. Letting me eat your food, talking with me, being so passionate about your town. You’re a nice guy,” Tamara said.

“I have to concede. I didn’t just come here to steal your food. And you kinda look like a guy I went to college with, but that isn’t what brought me in here,” Tamara admitted.

“Well why did you come over here?” The question prompted a rush of possible answers in my mind, all of which I knew were far removed from the truth, but still I entertained them as she moved her lips to say, “Your book. I love The Hitchhiker's Guide. Greatest book in the universe you know?” A bit of light came into her eyes, and she looked up at me smiling.

“Yeah me too. I just finished it last night, and I think it might be my favorite book. It’s just so goofy and philosophical, I love it. A lot of big ideas and funny moments, and the storytelling is just so like, clever. It has this funny way of explaining things and a lot of tangents about random space history. I just… I don’t know, I love it,” I told her, moving my arms around and shaking a bit.

“Yeah I know how you feel. I love books about space and probability and like, real existential stuff, you know?”

We went on like this for a few minutes, eating and talking about whatever came to mind. Tamara was a painter, and she had been playing bass for a few years. I told her about my history with drumming, and we both went on ranting about our awful high school band classes. She showed me a bit of her work. The amount of care she put into each one was evident with every stroke. She gushed about everything she loved, her every act was passionate and profound. I could have listened to her for hours, but she had other ideas in mind.

“Hey um. Do you… do you like records? Like vinyls and stuff?” she asked me.

“Yeah of course,” I responded. Never owned a record in my life, though I always wanted to.

“Well there’s this shop up the street and um, well if you want we can go look at them. If you want,”

I held back a huge smile.

“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll get myself together, then we can head out,”

“Okay, okay great,” I stood up, grabbing my dishes and my coat, and went to talk to Dan.

“Feeling better?” he asked, very aware of what was happening.

“Just a bit,” I said, and left him with the dirty tableware.

“Have a good night Marcus,” He said with a smirk as I walked away.

There was something about her, something special and dreamy. Not like Sleeping Beauty or Ramona Flowers. It wasn’t a manic pixie infatuation, it was something real. I didn’t know her, and for three seconds her name escaped me, but something inside me flexed and it felt like love. Stepping out of The Rosary, I felt an opportunity blossoming. A chance at a real connection, a deep, authentic relationship born from chance. I wouldn’t squander it. She came out after me, zipping up her coat as she did. With a big smile, I turned to her and asked, “Where to stranger?”

3. Vinyl Village

“My favorite movie? Hmmm,” she said, then after a small pause, “It’s a Chinese film, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it, it’s called Fallen Angels?” It struck me hard how much taste she had.

“Yeah! Yeah I’ve seen it. I love it. God I have a copy of In The Mood For Love at home,” I told her. Her smile shined brighter than the neon illuminating our path. 

“It’s just +perfect. It’s like, so romantic and sad. It’s gorgeous too, easily the best looking movie I’ve ever watched. I just love it so much,” she told me. We went on a bit about Wong Kar-Wai. The mood he’s cultivated with his movies, how hopelessly romantic his characters were.

“It’s crazy how relatable his movies are,” I said to her.

“Yeah I know right. Sometimes I honestly feel like it’ll never click for me. Love is hard and fleeting. I don’t think I would be surprised if it never came back to me,” Tamara responded. My heart fluttered, and I hoped to God I could prove her wrong. I made one final comment on lightning as we arrived at the record shop.

The sign above the door read “Vinyl Village” in white neon letters. I’d hear plenty about it in passing, though I never found the time to go myself. It was a fairly big store; I could see rows and rows of vinyls on stands and in bins. Along the wall were keyboards and guitars for sale, as well as shirts and sweaters with the store's logo. I stepped ahead and held the door for Tamara. The cool breeze of air conditioning hit us as we entered. The cashier looked up from her book to see who we were, then went back to what she was doing.

“They’re really laid back here. C'mon let's see what they have in stock,” she said before flying off to the indie section. We flipped through dozens of albums. Some new, some used. Some familiar, some intriguing. I took a minute to gawk at the covers of Punisher and Laurel Hell, and lost my shit when I saw a copy of Velocity: Design: Comfort.

“Do you have a favorite record?” I asked her as we moved throughout the shop.

“Oh, I don’t know. Post, Untourable Album, Psychopomp, Donuts. Just mellow, upbeat, experimental stuff. What about you?” Tamara said.

“Some of the same stuff actually. I love J Dilla. Him and MF DOOM, they’re some of my biggest inspirations. I mean I just love music, and they embody something about it that’s so candid and real. I could listen to almost anything if there's soul in it, and their work is full of it,”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I think music is really a type of art. It’s poetry, you know?” she said, smiling a bit.

“Yeah I do,” I smiled back.

I could feel us starting to fall into a rapport. Her words flowed like a river, smooth and light. Her voice was enchanting like the strings of a cello or the chords on a piano. Sentences fell on my ears like melodies. She could have said anything and it would have held me, but what she did say was full and thoughtful. She was an artist, it was all over her like paint on a canvas. She was beautiful, through and through.

“I’m sorry, I get carried away,” she finished. I asked about her favorite instrument, and her spiel about the synth took us from New Wave to Sweet Trip to Vangelis, then all the way back to the organ.

“No please, get as carried away as you want,”

“Hey, what do you think about this one?” she held up a copy of Master Of Puppets, grinning while she waited for an answer.

“It’s brash, loud, energetic. Exactly the kind of rock I like,”

“Okay okay,” she put the album down and ran across the shop.

“And this?” This time she pulled out Daft Punk’s Homework.

“I’m not crazy about it, but it’s got some great disco vibes,” she repeated this a couple times, surveying my opinion on whatever her hands touched. Sometimes I knew them well enough to give an answer, but other times I would say something like “I don’t know what that is, but it looks like Satan would bump it on the way to the grocery store,”

By the time we were at the register to check out, we both had tears stinging our eyes, and my lips were sore from smiling.

We burst outside laughing, holding the records we both decided we absolutely had to have. For me it was Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell and for her it was a lucky find of Miles In Tokyo. We sat on the curb and took a few minutes to admire the sleeves.

“This place usually doesn’t have much jazz. Such a rare album too, I mean someone must be dying to have this thing,” she let out a deep breath, and put her chin on her fist. 

“Marcus, can I… can I tell you something?” she asked after a beat.

“Tamara you can say anything you’d like,” I smirked, but a worry pricked my mind, and anxiety briefly came to me. A glance at her soft brown eyes reminded me that there was nothing to be afraid of, and the chorus in my mind made a sharp decrescendo.

“Okay. Well um,” she began.

“Well, I want to live the way I want, free, happy, relaxed, all that jazz. It’s why I make music and I paint, and why I stay out till midnight like a junkie. I’ve seen people live sad lives and then disappear old and hollow. Dead before they could even put a foot in the grave. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I die, but I know what I  want to happen while I’m alive. It’s stuff like this, real connections. Things that matter, that I can be proud of. I… I just.. I feel like I know you. I feel like you get it. And I’m glad you took the time to come here with me,” Tamara told me. She was crying, and I think if I was more prone to it, I would have cried too. Love started swelling in me again, and I looked into her eyes with sympathy. I felt enlightened, reborn, on the cusp of something pure and new. It was intangible, but I felt it in every part of myself. It surfaced as concern, but the feeling ran deeper. I could see her hands tremor too, and I thought maybe she felt the same. I realized what was happening, what these feelings and thoughts were mixing themselves into, and in a moment of clarity, I decided how the two of us would end our night.

“Tamara, there’s something I wanna show you. It’s sorta… abstract. I mean it’s… I can’t describe it, I just have to show you. If you’d like to see it,” she checked her watch, reminding me at once that time existed. It was nearing midnight, though I felt wide awake. She let out a strong yawn, then turned and said, “Sure, just tell me where it is at least,”

“It’s my apartment. Well, above my apartment. On the roof. You’ll see, c'mon,” And like a reflex, I reached for her hand, not meaning anything by it. She put her fingers between mine, rather than grabbing my palm. As if she wanted us to be together, and not just lead by me. Something jumped in my chest, then I felt warm all over. The feeling was sickening and unexpected, yet welcome. New yet familiar. We walked down the street just like that; hand in hand, smiling, letting joy and passion flutter in the thin air around us. 

4. ScribeAve Apts

They say that when you find the right person, love moves fast. They also say that only fools rush in, and that a fool is someone who has lost everything except reason. With this much advice flying around, it’s hard to know what to do with yourself, but this I knew for certain. I tried to give love time. I felt these feelings before, just as strong, and I did nothing with them. I wasted time and squandered romance. I thought taking my time was right, but to live and be idle is to be dead, and stupid. Love had no good reason to come back to me, yet there was Tamara. A raven-haired angel, someone who understood me and loved life the same way I do. Even if she’d never be with me, even if I never saw her again, the air between us was thick with affection. Against all odds love had found me again, and this time it wouldn’t be a waste.

We stopped at the building door, and I let go of her to take out my keys. She was smiling to herself, giddy and ecstatic. We dashed up the stairs. I urged her at every step to stay patient, that she’d get to see it soon. She didn’t complain, but I felt like I was taking too long. Finally we reached the top floor, and found ourselves under the roof hatch.

“Is this it?” Tamara asked as I went to grab the ladder.

“Yeah, just give me a sec, I gotta get the ladder,”

“Are we allowed up there?” she asked.

“I mean, not really. But it’ll be fine, c'mon,” she chuckled a bit as I set the ladder down. I went up first and opened the hatch, then beckoned for her to follow. She stumbled a bit on the way up, but joined me on top of the building once she caught her footing.

The snow was falling a bit harder now. As she climbed through the hatch, the wind blew her hair back. My heart stirred at the sight of Tamara against the city.

“What did you want to show me? The view? Or is there funny graffiti up here, I love funny drawings,” she asked. 

“No, it's not the view. It’s the sound,” I took her hand, and led her to the edge of the building. I had her stand in front of me, and from behind I held her shoulders.

“Is here good?” she tapped her feet twice on the ground.

“Yeah, it is. Now, I’m gonna cover your eyes. Just listen for a minute or two. It’ll be clear in a second,” I put my hands over her eyes.

“Don’t breathe, try not to think, just listen,” 

We stood there for a few minutes, absorbing the noise in the distance. I could hear her breathing against it, trying to look for what I wanted her to find.

“Can you hear it? The hum of traffic? The echoes of coughs? The beeps and shouts of the city? Can you feel the wind against your chest? Can you taste the exhaust on your tongue? Can you make out the song whispering in your ear?” I said softly in her ear. Her awareness grew with every lingering question. As I finished, she smiled at the unity of it all.

“It’s… it’s all a blur honestly. But it’s all life too. There’s something compelling about it, something comforting too,” she turned to face me, and found herself inches away from my face. A gust of wind would have made our lips crash, but for the moment we were divided. For a moment.

“I’ve never shown anyone this place,” I said after a moment. I was lost in her eyes like a cartoon, mesmerized by the bits of yellow shining through the fragile brown. 

“I mean, anyone could come up here but no one does. It’s more of a personal happy place. I love standing here, listening to the world out there. It keeps me sane. I don’t know, I mean, it’s intangible, abstract like I said. You heard it,” I finished with a smirk, feeling awkward yet alive.

“Yeah I understand. Being in tune with the world, being comforted by the signs of life. It’s like a song that never stops. The harmony of it, it’s moving. I love it,” she remarked, looking back at the skyline.

“So why me? Why bring me here, over everyone?” Tamara asked, and for a moment I had to think. I got close to showing Phoebe once. I never thought to bring Charles or Don. I wanted to show Amber, a while ago…

“Because you understand Tamara. You understand something not many people do. It’s like you said before, we have to make connections, live life, be proud of how we live. I may not know you too well, but I don’t think I’ll live to regret this,” I told her, beaming with delight.

Then I got a stupid idea. I took her face in my hand. She jumped back before she realized what was happening. Tamara met me halfway, and for a moment so brief and quiet, we kissed. She was soft, yet forceful. Strong lips and a loving touch. My heart had never been so loud before. As we broke apart, I could still taste peaches and gloss. She was breathing heavy, looking up at me like I had just tackled her.

"How do we go about explaining this?" she asked me, keeping her mouth close to my chin.

"Does it need explaining? Is this not love at its purest? Is this not what it's all about? How can you explain something so innate, so real? Why boher?" I told her. She flashed a smile. With a tiger's pounce, she jumped up and hugged me. We held each other in the moonlight until the cold was too much to bear.

I learned a few more things about her that night. She hates orange juice, she used to work in a bike shop, and her last name is Rivera. I also learned she would be free next weekend, if I wanted to see her again. Of course I wanted to see her again. I learned her phone number, I learned that she says “good bye-bye” when she leaves a room, and last but most poignantly, I learned that her scent hung in the air for an hour after she’s gone. Or maybe the fragrance was buried in my hoodie. She's too lovely to be loved, too dreamy to be real. I fell asleep with a head full of her, and woke up with her name on my tongue. Something clicked in my mind, and once again I had something to do with myself. Even if she disappeared into the wind tomorrow, I loved. I could be loved. I wasn’t lost, or cursed, or repulsive. I was just waiting. Before I rose, I felt around the bed for my phone. Phoebe would be getting an earful when she woke up.