Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe. Courtney Litz

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      “Ooh, I don’t know. I don’t want to run into that bartender I had the thing with. I still feel guilty about it and—”

      “Guilty about what? About not calling him back after you had sex? You just did what every man does on a bimonthly basis—it’s your right. You should feel proud in your womanhood. You’re advancing the cause, Lena.”

      “Okay, you made your point.”

      “Besides he hasn’t been there in months. Unless he morphed into a Latin lesbian with a spider tattoo on her stomach. She’s the one working there now.”

      “Stranger things have happened,” I joked, but couldn’t help but feel relieved. Jake reached out for my hand and pulled me to my feet.

      “Come to think of it, I don’t think you have a tortured-musician story yet, do you?”

      Ursula’s was, and very likely would forever be, permanently stuck in the year 1993. It had all the elements of the grunge era down perfectly—the perpetually pot-smoky air, the basic beer and hard liquor, and, of course, the sullen alt girls and boys wearing every shade of faded denim and worn leather. The walls were covered with tattered flyers announcing the next march/benefit/protest rally. Personally, I couldn’t imagine anyone here mustering the required energy to stand up straight, let alone rally against the Man, but it was a nice touch. And of course the music was predictably angst-ridden and mournful enough to make Eddie Vedder proud. I half expected to see Winona and Ethan hashing it out in a dark corner somewhere.

      Jake had run into his girlfriend du jour, Miranda, at the door, so I went in search of a free table. I glanced over at the bar just to make sure Jake wasn’t tricking me and was relieved to see the spider woman herself pouring a generous drink for a Kim Deal look-alike.

      I spotted a table next to the stage and motioned to Jake.

      “Excellent work, Lena,” Jake said as he approached the table.

      “Hey Lena,” Miranda said, looking past me.

      It is often like this with Jake’s girls. In the fruitless endeavor of trying to get a firm grasp on Jake’s roving affections, I am the enemy. Of course, I always try to temper the situation by keeping my distance, making overt references to any current boyfriends, etc. But Jake usually throws a wrench into my efforts with a subtle touch to my face, an unnecessary story of “that time we had to spend the whole night in the car together.” Yes, he loves the game.

      “Oh, Lena, do you know if I left my cell phone at your apartment the other night?” Jake couldn’t help smirking as Miranda visibly bristled. I half expected her perfect little head to spin off of her perfect little body.

      “Oh, Jake, you’re so funny,” I started to say, but a piercing noise erupted from the speaker that was, apparently, faced directly at us. So that’s why the table was free.

      “Maybe we should move,” I mouthed to Jake. And for once, Miranda appeared to be on my side.

      But before Jake could answer, the crowd rushed forward toward the stage, surrounding us as the band started in on their own variation of melodic melancholy. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to make chitchat with Miranda.

      I sipped my Guinness (ordering “my drink” in this place would be akin to donning a hot-pink boa) and settled in.

      I had to admit the band was pretty good, and one of them, the bass player, caught my eye. I watched him bend over his instrument, his shaggy hair obscuring his (undoubtedly soulful) eyes. And like any perfectly sane person, I imagined how our life together would be.

      Let’s see—after going on the road for a few club tours and collecting a slew of zany stories as two young free spirits, “Ben” (a sensitive yet masculine name, I think) and I would settle down in a brightly painted Brooklyn apartment filled with funky art and mementos from our touring adventures. Our adorable toddler named…Coda, or something similarly eccentric, would be along soon enough. The house would be teeming with pets and plants, signifying our thriving fertility and life-breeding spirit. I’d attend PTA meetings wearing the latest frock from my collection of cutting-edge hand knits that I sold at my hip Williamsburg boutique (which was frequented by all the major fashion editors and constantly featured in the pages of underground European fashion magazines). At night, we’d laugh and talk as a family to the strains of Ben’s latest composition for the film score he was working on. Coda would, of course, grow up to be a critically acclaimed filmmaker of socially and artistically progressive films, never failing to credit his parents for their loving and “creatively liberating upbringing” while giving interviews or delivering Academy Award acceptance speeches. It was so clear to me now.

      And then, my beloved fantasy mate pushed his shaggy locks away from his eyes and…James?

      I swiveled around so fast, I nearly spilled my beer. Jake looked at my fearful “Oh my God!” expression and instantly put the pieces together.

      James the bartender, the one that Jake had promised me wouldn’t be here tonight. He was a former quasi-flame whom I had abruptly and, I’m ashamed to say, not too gently let fall by the wayside when Nick and his lusty lips had hit the scene. I wanted to die.

      I looked around at the swelling crowd. I was trapped. I kept my head turned toward Jake and prayed for the set to be over so I could make my frantic exit. Finally the last irritatingly soulful song was played.

      Jake leaned over, sensing my panic. Miranda stiffened. Jesus woman, this isn’t about you! I thought to myself. I wanted to throttle her little neck.

      “Am I to assume that your evening is over?” he smiled. My panic impulses always amused him.

      “Um, yes,” I said sharply.

      At that moment, I felt the brief stillness that you feel when a private exchange suddenly becomes public.

      “Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while.” Jake had slipped into his low bass voice and Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly a heterosexual male was present. I turned to face the inevitable.

      “James!” I tried—and failed—to sound surprised to see him.

      “Hey, Lena, how’s it going?”

      “Oh, you know…” I said. Um no, he doesn’t know, you moron, I thought to myself. You conveniently disappeared from his life nine months ago.

      “Hope you enjoyed the show, glad you came by.” Of course, I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, Glad you came tonight when I look totally hot and you’re bloated with Guinness and playing third wheel to the Jake and Miranda show.

      “Oh, I did. You sounded great.” Such conversational skills, no doubt he was thinking, How did I let this one slip by?

      “Well, we’re going to leave you two alone.” Jake winked at me and guided Miranda over to the bar.

      “I’m exhausted. Mind if I sit down then?” James asked.

      “Oh, of course, please…sit.”

      So there we were, James and I.

      “I didn’t know you joined a band,” I said, simply to distract my brain from concentrating on ways to kill Jake. “You were really good.”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ