You

26

THE day after our sleepover without sex, you asked me to meet up with you in midtown. Curtis was gone and I was alone in the shop, but the day after a woman is naked in your apartment, everyone knows the only thing to say to her is yes. We picked up your new cable box. The line was a mile long. Then you sent me home.

And it’s been more of the same for the past two weeks. Today, you asked me to meet you in front of a Starbucks in Herald Square, where I stand now as you kiss me hello (on the cheek). You’re not gonna sit on my lap in an overstuffed chair and lick whipped cream off my upper lip. You’re in get-it-done daytime mode and Christmas shoppers walking by probably think I’m your gay best friend. My dick hurts, Beck. Where’s my holiday?

“So the good news is, I know exactly what I want.”

“You do?” I say and I hope you’ll ask me to eat you out in the bathroom at Starbucks.

“I want to get my mom those headphones that double as earmuffs.”

“Ah.” Digital earmuffs are the physical opposite of oral sex.

“And the better news is, I have a coupon,” you say and we are on our way into Macy’s.

Now you start in about money. You’re strapped for cash. I pretend that I didn’t read the e-mails you exchanged with your father this morning. I know that you’re waiting to see if your old man the Captain is gonna help you out.

We are in the ladies’ shoes section (didn’t you want earmuffs?) when you ask me about Curtis. I tell you that I caught him stealing and fired him. I do not tell you it was because he gave you my address. You sigh; he seemed like a good kid. Ha. We wander through jewelry (didn’t you just need earmuffs?), and you want to know when I’ll hire a new clerk. I tell you that the only thing more impossible than finding good help is running the store on my own. You nod and agree that most people are unemployable and is this really how it’s going to be, small talk about résumés and shit?

“Wanna go for a ride?” you say and if you mean that you’re gonna go for a ride on my dick, then yes.

But instead, you take my hand and lead me onto the escalator. It is crowded and sweaty and Christmassy and I would rather be balls deep in a trash can. There is no privacy on an escalator at Macy’s in December, but you’re a little performer, and here you go.

“So, my grad school adviser, the one on sabbatical who’s on a grant at Princeton.” And you pause, as if the Mexican chick in front of you cares. “He wants pages before we break, which is obviously ridiculous.”

“What’s his name again?” I say even though I have never asked.

“Paul,” you say and you don’t offer a last name and the conversation is over, thank God. We get off at the fourth floor. It’s loud and smells like pretzels and perfume. A Miley Cyrus song plays and it’s too hopped up in here. Loud skanks picking fights with each other assault my senses and I ask you if the headphones are on this floor and you tell me you need to return something.

Fortunately, the line at the Young Sluts Department isn’t that long because most Young Sluts can’t afford to buy shit. As it turns out you weren’t telling me the whole story and when it’s our turn, you pull out leggings and a wrinkled receipt out of your bag and the poor girl behind the counter has never done a return and, of course, we have to wait.

“Is there a reason this is taking so long?” you snip.

“Well, you bought these more than a hundred days ago.”

“So?”

And holy shit, you really are broke because why else would you be digging up pants from three months past? You grab the pants and the receipt and you shove them in your bag.

“I’ll just come back when there’s a manager.”

“Fine by me.”

You are stung now; you were depending on that refund. You take it out on everyone in the Young Sluts, plowing through rayon and neon without saying excuse me. A couple of bitches say they want to kick your ass, but they won’t; they’re in high school, they are happy just to call you a beeatch. I tell you to slow down and you don’t listen and I almost love what a cunt you can be because one of these days you’re gonna tie me to a bed and slap me and lord over me the way you lord over all the people who get in your way. You’re so revved up and I want to play with you and I do.

“Beck.”

“What?”

“Look, I don’t know shit about girls’ clothes, but those pants that you were trying to return, they look good.”

“They don’t look good on me.”

“Can I see?”

You fight a smile but you lose. “Here?”

“Yeah,” I say and you’re walking more slowly now and there’s nobody monitoring the dressing room because it really is Christmas and Santa knows I’m a good boy. We walk down the corridor of dressing rooms toward the handicap one on the end. You don’t tell me why you’re pushing that door open and you don’t invite me into the room but I follow. I sit down on the bench and you stand in front of the three-panel mirror. You pull the pants out of your bag and what is wrong with you that you’re still thinking about pants?

You sigh. “See, what I really want are jeggings.”

But what you really need is an orgasm and I tell you to try them on. You are blushing, naughty and a door slams and someone’s muttering get a room and we did get a room, we have this room and your furry boots are off and you’re unzipping your jeans and they’re so snug that when you pull them down your panties start to go with them.

“Come here.”

“Joe. Shh.”

I motion for you to come here. Because you are shy at heart, you pull your pants up and even start to zip them as you walk over to me. I look up at you and you look down on me and you start to crouch down and reach for my belt buckle but no. I grab your hand, firm.

“Stand up.”

You do. And when I start to unzip your pants you step closer and wiggle and help me get you out of those pants and I get you all the way out of them and throw them at the mirror and finally, at long last, in the Young Sluts Department of Macy’s in Herald Square, Christmas comes early. I taste you. I lick you. And when you cum you cum at the top of your lungs.

I love shopping.

Sex clears the mind and the orgasm agrees with you. We leave the dressing room and you decide to give the pants you were trying to return to your mother—I knew we were never getting any earmuffs. You hold my hand hard and tight and we ride the escalator four flights back down and you do not want to browse anymore. The music softens as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” begins, my favorite sad holiday song. You ask me what I’m doing for the holiday, and I tell you that I’m working, of course, and you tell me that you’re going to have to get a job. You lead me into men’s hats and you pick up a red and green wool monstrosity. I shake you off.

“Maybe I can work here.” You smile. “You could come visit me on my breaks.”

“Do you really need a job?”

Instead of answering me, you pick up a red hunting cap like the one Caulfield wore in The Catcher in the Rye and you look up at me. “Please? It’s pretty much my favorite book of all time.”

I can’t say no and I love you for not mentioning the book by name. I put the hat on and you bite your lip. “Adorable.”

It’s hard to get you to take me seriously while wearing this ridiculous hat but I try. “Seriously, Beck, do you need a job?”

“You are too hot.” You squeal and you take out your phone. “One picture, Joe. You have to let me get that for you.”

“I better not see that on Facebook.”

“You’re not on Facebook, silly,” you say. “Smile.”

You take my picture and I give you the hat and you dig in your bag for your credit card. “Beck,” I say. “You don’t need to buy me a hat I’m never gonna wear. Seriously. Do you need a job?”

“I know I don’t need to buy it,” you say. “I want to.”

It’s Christmas so I let you buy me the cap and I say I’ll only wear it on one condition.

“Anything,” you say and you have gorgeous tunnel vision.

“Tell me you’ll take a job at the bookshop.”

“Yes!” You cheer and you throw your arms around me, I give you everything you want, everything you need, and you kiss my neck so softly, my lips, tenderly. You murmur my name—Joe—and everyone walking by probably thinks we just got engaged.

LATER in the day, Ethan shows up for an interview. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the job has been taken. He looks like a gerbil and he’s friendly as a puppy and he’d be better off in an animal shelter than a bookstore. He talks a lot and I check your e-mail and it’s clear to me that you called Peach and told her about our shopping excursion and your new job. She writes:

Beckalicious, I hope you’re not beating yourself up after the Target romp. Remember: Doing something trashy does not make you trashy. You’re only human, little one! Just please be tender with him, probably not the best idea to work together. Maybe better to work on campus? Anywho, be well, Peach.

The e-mail from Peach kills my Macy’s buzz. What if you back out on me? What if we work together and we don’t get along? What if you need to have #girlsnight on your nights off and I never get to go shopping with you again? Ethan would never bail on me; he brought three copies of his résumé. “You seem awfully busy, Joe,” he says, perky. “If you want me to go I can come back in a little while! My day’s clear!”

I buy time. I don’t know if I can deal with his energy. “What are your five favorite books?”

He smiles like I just told him that Santa Claus is real and I read your response to Peach:

Oh, it was Macy’s, not Target, so that’s more respectable . . . I hope. And you’re right, I know I shouldn’t work at the bookstore. I am sooo bad about boundaries. Why are you always so smart?!

Ethan is the middle of his analysis of The Lord of the Rings when I interrupt him.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. Just give me another minute here.”

“You don’t have to be sorry!” He sings, “You’re the boss!”

Everything is an exclamation point with this guy, which is why it’s puzzling that his favorite book of all is American Psycho. “I love a good scare! Don’t you, Joe?”

I prefer literary fiction and he wags his tail and I refresh your inbox and open Peach’s response:

I just care about you, Beckalicious. Remember: boundaries! Also, I feel like I haven’t seen you in foreverrrrr.

I put your phone away and quietly thank your mother for footing the bill. Ethan is still talking about the gerbil in American Psycho.

He gushes and giggles and who the fuck is this guy? “I just love books,” he chirps. “I could talk about books until the cows come home! That’s the hardest thing about losing the job and the girlfriend. I miss talking. I love talking!”

Ethan is the loneliest, most depressing man I’ve ever met in my life and at the same time, he’s saving me. And he’s perfect, just what I need. You will not be into this guy and next to him, I’m the man. I smile. “So, Ethan. Can you work weekends?”

“Of course!” he chirps, not entirely unlike a gerbil. “I can work anytime!”

When we stand I realize that he’s almost a foot shorter than I am. He has dandruff and he gushes with gratitude as I walk him to the door. “You know, Joe, I always had this feeling that I’d wind up with a fun job like this! To be honest, majoring in finance was my dad’s idea. Not mine!”

“Well, that’s good, Ethan, this is good,” I say and he is the one with boundary issues. “You go have a beer and celebrate.”

“I don’t really drink but maybe I’ll put a little rum in my Diet Dr Pepper!” he exclaims and when I watch him walk down the street, I feel proud like a teacher. I have done a good thing today.

You write to Peach and wish her a happy holiday in the sun. You tell her you’re probably going to stay in the city because it costs so much to get to Nantucket and she responds:

Sweetness, if you need a loan, you know I am here. . . .

You write back NO adamantly and Peach is leaving to meet her family in St. Barts and rub organic sun block all over her grotesque body and think about you. Maybe she’ll find a native girl, fall in love, and let you be. I e-mail you that you start tomorrow and you respond right away, the right way:

Yes, Boss.

Later that night, you call me to clarify your start date. When I tell you about Ethan, you are confused at first.

“I thought I got the job,” you say.

“Well, it’s the busiest time of the year, Beck.”

“Does this mean I won’t get as many hours?”

“This means we might have a night off together once in a while.”

You get it and you lower your voice. “Are you sexually harassing me already?”

I don’t laugh. “Yes, miss. I am.”

I’m a genius, clearly, and Peach can fuck off because we keep talking, like boyfriend and girlfriend. I tell you more about Ethan and you laugh.

“He’s like the anti-Blythe,” you say. “She crosses out exclamation points in everyone’s stories. Literally.”

“Damn,” I say. “I wonder what would happen if they were in the same room together.”

“Omigod,” you say and I can tell that you just sat up. “We have to do that.”

“Beck.”

“We have to set them up.”

“This kid is so innocent,” I say. “I don’t think I can unleash Blythe on him.”

“Honestly, Joe,” you say. “Ethan might be just what Blythe needs. And vice versa. I mean, opposites attract, you know?”

“Are we opposites?”

“Well, we’ll see,” you say and then we move on to talking about Indian food and music and it’s one of those conversations that just flows, the kind you can only have after a dressing room.

When we finally hang up, I send you Ethan’s contact information for Blythe. I write:

Merry Christmas!

You write back:

It is indeed.