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Saturday: 9 p.m
.
She
was
looking
into
the
small
mirror,
checking
her
makeup,
and
everything
looked
fine.
Then,
she
approached
a
large
mirror
to
see
if
her
red
dress
was
flattering
her
47-year-old
body.
Yes!
She
looked
amazing
and
knew
it
would
be
a
great
date
night.
9:13 p.m
.
A
few
minutes
later,
the
intercom
buzzed.
She
picked
it
up
and
said
her
name
was
Susan,
then
added
that
she
was
coming
down.
Sunday: 12:34 a.m.
She
entered
her
apartment
feeling
completely
sad,
with
her
makeup
completely
smudged.
She
sat
on
the
couch
and
cried
for
a
long
time.
It
was
another
Saturday
night,
like
so
many
others.
She
had
created
high
expectations
of
finally
meeting
the
right
guy,
but
it
had
all
ended
so
badly
with
yet
another
scoundrel.
2:17 a.m.
After having been drinking vodka since she returned, she falls asleep on the couch with Ella Fitzgerald singing Wave by Antonio Carlos Jobim on the stereo.
10:26 a.m.
She woke up with a tremendous headache. The stereo had turned off automatically. She got up and went to the bathroom to look for a painkiller. After using the bathroom, she returned to the living room, picked up a cup of water, gulped it down, and went to the door. She opened it, picked up the Sunday edition of The New York Times, and returned to sit on the couch.
Saturday: 11:35 p.m.
One week had passed since that horrible meeting. She spent the whole day waiting to be invited to a dining shed in the Village, but nobody from her work called. She settled on the couch with Ben & Jerry's Grand Pot, and watched SNL, finding momentary relief from the stress of the week. When the show ended, she headed to the bedroom and picked up Thomas Wolfe's "Look Homeward, Angel," losing herself in its pages.
Saturday: 3:45 p.m.
Two weeks had passed since that horrible meeting. She emerged from her bathroom, donning a blue bathrobe with a matching towel wrapped around her hair. She appeared calm, and while waiting for her hair to dry, she switched on the radio to tune in to WNYC, which was airing "How I Built This," a program featuring successful entrepreneurs. Once more, nobody called or dropped by to see her.
Saturday: 7:27 p.m.
Three
weeks
had
passed
since
that
horrible
meeting.
She
sat
at
her
desk,
wrapping
up
some
work
on
her
MacBook.
Once
finished,
she
went
online
and
watched
some
reruns
of
Tony
Guida's
NY
on
CUNY
TV
on
YouTube.
One
of
them
was
an
interview
with
Gay
Talese
about
his
famous
profile,
"Frank
Sinatra
Has
a
Cold."
She
enjoyed
the
program,
but
when
it
ended,
she
called
someone
on
her
phone
and
received
no
response.
Disappointed,
she
shut
down
her
Mac
and
headed
to
her
bedroom.
Saturday: 8:10 p.m.
Four weeks had passed since that horrible meeting. She was sitting on the couch in her pajamas, reading Thomas Wolfe's book. Suddenly, the intercom buzzed. She got up, went to the door, and opened it.
8:13 p.m.
A few minutes later, a pizza delivery driver arrived and handed her a pizza in a box. She paid for it, and the guy left as she closed the door. She opened the box, grabbed a slice, and began to cry. She quickly moved to leave and accidentally dropped the box of pizza on the floor. She went to her bedroom, where she cried for many minutes until she fell asleep in her bed.
11:03 p.m.
While she slept in her room, my fellow Mus musculus and I watched the pizza on the floor. I signaled to my gang and said, "It's time to go to the party!" Then, my rat friends and I began to devour the entire pizza that belonged to the girl who had once been rejected by society but never by us, her loyal companions in loneliness.
END
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