What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

I let the fact I wasn’t technically ‘seeing’ Anthony slide. My friends want me to be happy; but no part of my sleeping with Anthony was happy, and they’d spent all spring listening to me bemoan how horrible he was. They can sense I’m growing uncomfortable with where all this talk is headed, that we’re moving from friendly concern to lecturing. Dawn mentions that she’s cramping and asks if Amy has a spare tampon before skipping off to the bathroom.

I sat between them once Dawn returned, miserable in the knowledge they were both on their periods while mine was still painfully absent. It had been three months since I went off the pill without so much as the faintest signs that my body had started carrying something inside of it.

“I took another pregnancy test,” I blurt out. I had sent them photos of the one I’d taken a month before, the solitary blue line indicating that I was period-less, but not pregnant.

“Oh my god, ME TOO!” We marvel over the fact none of us has a period like clockwork while exchanging shaky smiles and breaths of relief that — at least for now — none of us will have an unwelcome visit to Planned Parenthood.

We order two plates of spicy wings to share and start singing along to the songs our bartender selects from his iPod. Between classic Boyz II Men and Justin Timberlake, Dawn remembers that her beat-to-shit songbox is at the bottom of her bag and we start rotating between devices, carefully selecting songs that any drunken idiot can mumble along with. The singing and the dancing in our chairs continues, drinks continuing to be set down in front of us before we have the chance to ask for them. “Guys, seriously — we don’t need to be blowing this much money on booze. It’s Monday!”

“Don’t worry — these are on us, party girls.” Their term of semi-endearment isn’t really that funny, but we crack up. Our giggles explode into laughter so intense my sides and stomach start to burn. By the time we’ve calmed down enough to finish the next two rounds that have been set out in front of us, the bartenders are clearly getting ready to close up shop. “Use the backdoor ladies. Uh… not in a creepy way.” We raise our eyebrows and finish what’s left in our glasses, thanking and tipping them excessively before heading out the side door. After hugging each other goodbye we part ways, them toward the G station at the end of the block and me toward the L.

I cross the street and head into McCarren Park, lighting another cigarette as I walk under the trees and toward the well-lit track; it looks more like a horror movie set. Abandoned grassy places just have that feel about them; the potential for danger might be why I stop there and lean against the metal railing surrounding one of the larger trees on the park’s perimeter. A man I don’t know approaches me, asking for a cigarette before posting up a few inches away from me. We stand like that for a while, not talking, barely acknowledging each other. I’m lost in thought, unable to shake the fact that I feel the same way after hanging out with Dick as I did after Shane. I can’t stop thinking about how Dick told me he liked me while pushing my hair away from my face in his bed the week before.

My attention returns to the quiet new friend I’ve made, to the way he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he thinks I’m down to fuck or maybe he’s just the kind of drunken idiot that approaches women alone in the park at night. It doesn’t matter; I’m not afraid. And then I find myself walking out of the park toward another bar, amazed and thankful for how empty the street is. This must be why people party on Monday nights.