Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola

“I have,” I said, and left it at that.
He was moving there to be an actor. Oh baby, you are screwed, I thought, but I didn’t say this.
Instead, we talked about leaps of faith. We talked about Denzel, his favorite actor. I tried to prepare
him for disappointment, as I’m sure everyone did: Don’t make fame the measure of success, I told
him; make this move about learning something.
It was an early morning flight, and around us, heads tilted back with eyes closed and mouths open,
so we whispered like two kids talking behind the teacher’s back. We talked so long that a three-anda-half-hour
plane ride felt like 30 minutes. I noticed all the times he touched my knee.
I was nearly 40, used up in some corners of history, and men my age were often chasing women
with luscious rumps and tits that had yet to sag. I wasn’t looking for younger guys, but they seemed to
find me anyway, and I wondered why. Maybe they sensed I was not interested in commitment yet. Or
maybe they liked the grooves of a hand that knew its own strength. I was done trying to be anyone
else.
“Do you think the mile-high club really exists?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.
“I hope not,” I said. “Fucking in an airplane bathroom sounds terrible.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Our plane landed, but we were not ready to part. It was his first day in New York, and it was only
11 am, which meant we had time to spray paint the town before we parted. I paid for the cab ride to
the Ace Hotel in Midtown, a place where musicians and writers often stayed, and I treated him to
lunch at the restaurant, full of downtown charm and bustle. “You are giving me one hell of a story,” he
said, and I smiled, because he was doing the same for me.
We sat on the couch in the lobby, my legs on his lap. We were surrounded by strangers typing on
their laptops, headphones on. Did they notice us? What did they see? He fiddled with my hair, which
fell across my brow. He traced his fingers around mine as my hand rested on his knee. Have you ever
noticed how astonishing it can be, holding hands with a person? Such an everyday thing, such a
nothing gesture. But two hands, barely touching each other. It can feel like flying.
He kissed me then. Right in front of all those people. I didn’t care. They were too busy with
Twitter and Facebook to pay attention. “I want to put down my credit card and take you upstairs right
now,” he said. I smiled, and ran my fingers over his sweet face, that face that had taken him so far in
the world, and I said, “Not this time.”
His body fell back in the couch. “So that’s it? You’re going to leave now?”
I smiled. That’s right. I was going to leave now. But I gave him my number, and I told him to text
me if he ever needed me, and I walked out to the bustling sidewalk feeling so light.
It’s a fine day when you finally figure out the right time to leave the party.