Camille and I are sitting in front of the Met checking out the cheese, as she likes to call it. We’re in little dresses and flats, cardigans tossed over our shoulders…dressed for, we’re not quite sure what we’re doing yet.
I opt for the Van Gogh exhibit, his irises and roses on display. Camille wants to skip Vinnie and head straight to a bar. Why does it feel like sex without dinner and a movie first?
Couples stroll by eating hot dogs and pretzels, the kind true New Yorkers never touch. They carry MOMA and Macy’s bags wearing T-shirts that say Soho, Strawberry Fields and Time Square.
The days of picking up a tourist showing him around are long behind me. The promise of, don’t forget to write, as he leaves your apartment, his shirttails hanging out, reads like old paint.
“Everybody’s so fat,” observes Camille. “Too much food, not enough sex.”
“Maybe it’s a lotta sex, then too much food. It always gave me an appetite…grilled cheese comes to mind. ”
“Chips,” we say in unison.
“Come on SB, let’s hit the deli.”
We saunter down Fifth onto Lex sharing a large bag of Lays Potato Chips, two bottles of Schweppes Bitter Lemon to wash it down.
As we pass a liquor store, Camille gives me a sideward glance. Our Schweppes suddenly has a shot of Stolli to keep it company.
“Ya see Camille, who needs a man to have a good time on a Saturday night?”
She let out a sigh easily heard around the world.
“Who? Me, that’s who.”
I say nothing, letting her longing drift aimlessly into the ethers.