the world & words of a new york city writer

gretchen is a writer in new york city

Category: miscellaneous (page 2 of 16)

transport delivery

Transport Delivery

“Thanks for not having sex with me.”

There’s nothing quite like a 27 year old lover scorned. We started sleeping together when he was 24. I ended it recently for someone who is 52 and speaks French. Someone who appreciates shoes, smells like tangerines and tastes like vanilla.

Certain things are worth the sacrifice.

I’m on the corner of 44th Street and 3rd Avenue at 8 in the morning, when midtown is just as hopping as the meat packing district at 4am. Every creed and color pours up and down avenues, in and out of transport hubs. There’s so many of us, it’s like no one even notices each other.

“You’re welcome.”

We kiss on the cheek in the amicable style we’re each trying to adjust to. This is what it means to make friends with someone you used to fuck. I’m 37 years old, I haven’t done this to date. I’m still uncertain that I’m going to start now.

There’s something beautiful to me about standing in the center of Manhattan wearing sweatpants I slept in with messy bed hair. You never know where life will take you.

The cold February prick of winter stings my cheeks as I turn to walk home. I try to be a good host and always escort guests to their destination. That’s part of why I love living in my neighborhood, there’s 24-hour transportation that can literally get you anywhere in the world. That’s how I ended up living in Australia for ten years.

I originally left New York City for love and I came back because of heartbreak. Both times I was saved, for different reasons. There was at least one solid lesson that came of it all, anyways; your heart only breaks once.

your socks

The last night I saw you was the only night my dog ever pissed on my floor. She did it while you were here doing drugs in my bathroom that were delivered by my dealer in a silver BMW about twenty minutes ago.

These are things that happen in Manhattan.

I’ve known you for almost two years now and you have begged and pleaded and played on the weakness my divorce cut me with and broke both of my knees.

I’ve given you a lot. Too much. Things I will never get back. Things you will never deserve. But if you ever thought I would give you the number of my delivery service – you played yourself. Continue reading

mandatory retreat

mandatory retreat

You show up unannounced again, three days after I say I can’t see you anymore and six weeks after we meet. I would have told you not to come. But you caught me off guard, like the day I first saw you.

There are things that I do and things that I have done that you will never know. It’s why you can’t keep coming here. It’s why I never should have agreed to see you twice.

You think things about me that are not true. I order my fourth drink during our third dinner together and you say, “Man, I can’t drink like that, especially not on a weeknight.” Continue reading

this. bitch.

this. bitch.

The way she follows you is laughable.

She is a painter who is seven years younger, five pounds lighter and many lifetimes of practicality unborn – than me.

I have this odd way of stating things. Like how on the day we met I told you to move in with me. She doesn’t know me. But she follows me. She reads my blog. She masturbated to one of my photos. Continue reading

sunday thai

It’s just after noon in a small Thai joint somewhere in the east 30’s on the corner of Madison.

I enter the establishment wearing a t-shirt with a typewriter on it appropriately labeled “writer” in courier print; a tipped Kangol hat; and a pair of men’s carpenter pants, cut to fall halfway down my muscular calves. It’s hot outside.

The “shorts” once belonged to my second husband, and someone before that because they were second-hand like everything else about him. The t-shirt was a birthday present from the first. Divorce is impossible, I’ve learned. It never goes away.

The restaurant is empty and both of the gorgeous Thai serves, one male, one female – both 20 something – are over the moon to see me.

“You’re open right?” I ask knowing that they obviously are but grabbing the chance to flirt with the pair of them.IMG_2143

“Yes, yes!” they say smiling and speaking at the same time.

“Which table? Any table you like.”

I take off my hat and grab a bench seat toward the front where natural light is still flooding in, prior to when the sun tips too far west and afternoon shadows cast. But before I actually land in the seat I say, “Thai beer?”

“Singha?”

“Yes, please.” Continue reading

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