Waiting

Two minutes late isn't a crime. The crime is how comfortable I feel sitting here, alone, a vodka tonic burning on this small wooden table, my pen out, its tip meeting its own reflection on the semi-glossy pages of my daily planner. I already went through the errands, crossed some things off my list. There's nothing left to do but write.

It's just before 9 PM on Saturday night in the Lower East Side. I'm meeting four girls. Four lovely, funny, hot bitches. Our plan is to get together and drink. Maybe discuss our menstrual cycles. You know, the usual.

It's just before March. March could be quite a month. It could either break my heart or open doors to what I've always thought was my future: me, hunched at a desk, pencil in mouth, hair up, typing fast, a cigarette burning in a tiny ashtray on my desk. And that's all I do. That's it.

The DJs show up, carrying bins full of vinyl and rectangular metal cases. One is a true LES-dweller with shaggy hair and a gaze fixed on a point just out of his focal range. The other is a Japanese kid wearing a winter white crocheted beanie and a matching bomber jacket. Goggles of some sort. He's the one who does the flyers, catalogs the records, and worries about surge protectors. His buddy is just for show. They plop their gear on the floor near me and ask the hot French bartendress if she needs anything. I gather they are foraging for dinner. You know it's a party when the DJs show up.

OK, 16 minutes is criminal. When you're waiting for four people and they're all late, it kind of feels like a conspiracy. I picture my girls, two doors down, heads back in laughter, earrings glittering in the candlelight. They're saying things like "I'd never made out with anyone with a tongue stud before" and "Who wants a shot?" and they're giggling and flickering and beautiful and alive.

Maybe I'm in the right place after all.