Excerpts from a diary

Saturday
WOW I met the most incredible man last night. Yesterday day time was so shitty—I had been moping around the house, feeling lousy because I bumped into Raoul at CVS. I was picking up some of those low-carb diet bars-religiously expensive-$2 for some wheat germ and no carb glue. Well, there I am, with my glasses on, just gotten out of bed, hadn't shaved, corkscrew hair, I'm squatting down reading the carb content of the Cookies & Cream bar. Immersed in fiber content, I notice a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I first see brown corduroys-should have been my first hint-then I look up, and there he is, looking at me, with that same sad stupid look on his face. I stand, pretend to be glad to see him, ask him how he's doing, ect. Blah blah blah. He said he was there picking up a prescription, which must be for that thing on his back-yecch-and then said, "Well, nice to see you, bye." Nice to see me? Whatever. And the way he said it-with that sarcasm-barely perceptible, but oh yes, it was there. He was making fun of the way I looked, laughing in his head that I was such a mess, that this was the best I could do, post-him, post-breakup. Bastard. I bet he followed me in there from home.

Went back home, did Pilates, tried to pretend Raoul never existed, and came very close to taking his photo off of my dresser. Sat down, thought about things for a while, then decided to go out and have a drink. I went to Dougie's—softly wishing he would be there—then getting mad at myself for wanting him to be. I get there, and I start ordering vodka tonics. I think I had about eight. I'm about to order number nine, when Mr. Love Potion walked in the door. WOW. What a face, what an ass. He went to the bar, and waited for the bartender. I walked over and stood behind him. He smelled like Jazz-that cologne that Raoul showed me that time Au Printemps in Paris. It was delicious, not like that antediluvian crap Raoul wears. I listened; he ordered a Kettle One Martini, up, very dry, with a twist. Hardcore.

I felt a little wobbly so I leaned against the pillar. He took his drink, turned around, and looked even better up close. I followed him over to the barstools and introduced myself, offered a cigarette. There was something oddly elegant about the way he was drinking that martini-he held it by the glass itself, not the stem-not like the way yuppies or guppies do. I was drunk enough to be mesmerized. He saw me watching him, so I said, "You are one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen in my life" then regretted it instantly. He smiled, however, which made me feel better, then asked if I wanted to dance.

We walked out of the bar together, and I blew him in the alley way, just like I did the first time I met Raoul. He smiled, and for a moment he expressed the definition of je ne sais quoi, and with a little wicked twinkle in his eye, he walked me home. On the way, I blew him again in someone's garden, and I think it was then that I gave him my number, but I'm not really sure. Well, I hope he calls. Whatever his name is. Pete? Pat? Paul? I have to soak the grass stains out of my knees.

Friday
He called! I was feeding Muffin and Buffin when the phone rang. Feed cats, phone rings. Scientific. I'm supposed to meet him in an hour and half at Dougie's again. Now I'm a little hesitant-he called and said, "Do you remember me?" and I knew who it was, but I couldn't really remember much else. His name is Paul, and he remembered a lot about me from Saturday night, so I guess I'll go and see. He sounded kinda sexy on the phone. I told Joey to call me at 8:30 in case I need an out. Maybe I'll wear that shirt Raoul gave me for Xmas. He said it brought out my eyes. Might knock off a few years. I think he's much younger than me. He seemed older, but can't be older than 32. Off I go, wish me luck!

Saturday afternoon
Whoo! Just got home. Yeah I did! I didn't drink as much as I wanted to, I wanted to be sure I'd be OK. We met, blah blah, and as soon as he laughed, I remembered who it was. What a funny laugh; so loud, so boisterous-it totally contradicts the way he's so...stealth? I guess that's the word; he walks like he's not really walking-he's more of a vehicle for a presence than an actual person. He speaks French and Japanese, and has lived and been all over the world. Something we have in common. I taught him a few Hebrew words. His French isn't perfect, though-there's lots of words he doesn't know-like poils-but he's a fast learner. He says "poils" just like a kiss. But he lived in the Troisiéme—no one with that kind of money ever needs to know how to speak French. What he does know, though, he pronounces in perfect Parisian-except for a few words he says with a strong Strasbourg accent. And he'd only been there twice. When he does he sounds just like Raoul. Stupid Strasbourg. He is 24, just like Raoul. We're going to dinner tonight, so I'm going to nap. I'm all worn out from the evening. He's strange-he doesn't much reciprocate, physically. I'll change that.

Sunday afternoon.
Back again. We had dinner last night, everything went really well. I think I might have had too much wine or something, or maybe he just made me feel so comfortable, but I unloaded a little bit about Raoul. But unprovoked-completely unprovoked. He asked me who I kept talking about "offhandedly." PS-who uses "offhandedly" in a conversation? I wasn't sure what he meant until he said, "Well, someone's 24, someone's got black hair, someone speaks French; who is that someone?" I explained to him that it was this guy named Raoul, but didn't say anything more than that. I don't want him to think I'm one of those men totally hung up on his ex. Like Raoul was with Albert. So after dinner, which he bought-sweet!-we went out to Holly's for a few drinks, then back to his place. It was strange-at Holly's he didn't seem comfortable-it was very different; he seemed on guard or something. In the cab, I asked him why he didn't like that place, and he said he just didn't like Boystown. I asked him why, and he said "I dunno, I just don't care for it." ARAGH just like Raoul used to vacillate over the dumbest questions. Is it that hard for them to give a straight answer? Jesus. I called him out on it; said, "You have so many opinions and are outspoken on everything else, but you have no answer for why you don't like Boystown?" He looked at me and said, "Isn't it obvious?" No, it's not obvious. Whatever.

Paul's apartment is tidy, small, and a little over the top lavish. Every square inch of space is decorated with some picture or photo or drawing or fabric. A bit excessive for my taste, but for some reason those whore-red silk curtains, that black gold and burgundy Italian Renaissance bedding, animal skins, and the kaleidoscopic time warp of artwork all fits together. It's kinda like him. He's alive on so many different levels all the time-what you see is definitely not what you get. I like that. And then there's nothing in his kitchen-and it's either plastic cups, or crystal wine glasses. But he could be the next one. I'm starting to think that you really can tell what a person is like by his environment. And Raoul's apartment was messy, with sterile walls, and really lousy bedding. Paul's bed is so soft and luxurious. What a dream.

Friday
Paul dumped me tonight. I don't understand. Everything was going so well. We were just talking, and I "offhandedly" said, "You 24 year olds are all alike." He locked eyes with me, and the air stopped moving. I wasn't afraid or scared, but it was like a black hole had sucked all the warmth out of the room. In him I could see a fury, a passion-a-furious intellect. There was a creak of the floorboards upstairs; it was as if that creak reanimated the room; Paul softened his eyes and said, "No, not all 24 year olds are all alike." Then his eyes hardened; then he said, "For example, my name is Paul, and his name is Raoul." My lower lip trembled. THEN he accused me of still being in love with Raoul. He didn't even give me a reason why he thought that. But I'm over Raoul! I mean, I don't even think about him anymore. I don't get it. I'm going out for a drink.