I practically fall in the door that afternoon, clutching my purse, the grocery bags, and the mail, keys jangling in my right hand.

The front door balanced on my shoulder, I push my way into my apartment, kicking the left heel of my shoe off with the toe of my right one, then reversing the process. I drop my packages on the couch and wiggle my toes in relief into the cool carpet, kicking my heels into the corner and taking a deep breath.

I pad through the living room in my stocking feet, wiping my face on my sleeve. By God, it’s hot in New Jersey in August. The transition from cool, air-conditioned car to hot, sticky apartment made it feel as though my clothes were melting into my skin. Pulling my blouse free from my waistband and reaching behind me to unzip my skirt, I peer at the answering machine and count the blinks ... one ... two ... three ... four ... Four?? Wow, I thought, those mortgage-refinance telemarketers must have been working overtime today. Or maybe it’s the sewer system people this time, a little variety. I punch the ‘play’ button as I slide out of my skirt, kick it off, and toss it over the arm of the couch, grabbing the grocery bags and bringing them into the kitchen. I begin to unload into the fridge as I listen to the messages.

Lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, lemons to the bottom drawer... “Hi! We have an exciting offer for you from Universal Card Services! Just call 1-800-223...”

Frozen veggies, frozen pizza [it’s my vice, good nutrition be damned], low-fat Ben & Jerry’s to the freezer... BEEP... “Hi! It’s Sara from Dr. McMillian’s office, it’s time for your six month cleaning, please call to schedule your ap...”

Milk, OJ, lunch meat, eggs, bread to the top shelf, it’s too damn hot to leave the bread out, it’ll mold... BEEP “Hey, you there? Hello? Hello? {sigh}Ok, it’s Paul. Call me, please. We’ve been invited to a barbecue this weekend by Joe over in Finance & Acquisition and I need to you come. Command performance, you know how it is. I’ll be home...” I make a face as I slam the ketchup into the door shelf. Of course he’ll be home, he doesn’t do anything else. Paul and I have been dating for 6 months and I’m already feeling like an old, married lady: Following orders, presentable on his arm at parties, walking an appropriate 6 paces behind him in public. I grin thinking of myself in a kimono - full wig and white makeup - head bowed as I shuffle behind Paul at the barbecue, looking so clean and sharp and utterly promotable in his chino’s and golf shirt ... And so utterly boring.

Groaning, I stand up, my knees complaining loudly. Grabbing the egg noodles out of the grocery bag and reaching up to open the cabinet door over the stove. BEEP “Ummmmm ... hi...”

I freeze, noodles crunching in my hand, still reaching up on my toes to the shelf.

“ ... Well, you probably know who this is, even though it’s been a while...” Leaving the cabinet door open, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room toward the answering machine, crushing the bag of pasta in my fist. “Kind of ironic, but I’m going to be in New York this week, that trip we had always planned on.” I stand directly over the answering machine, leaning forward, as if getting closer would change the message and make it all be some weird Freudian event I was having.

“So, I’ll be there on the seventh, Tuesday. Tomorrow. The number at the hotel is (212)86...” I weaken in the knees, sitting on the side of the couch. The noodles falls to the cushion and then to the floor. “I’d really like you to call me, even though things aren’t quite the same anymore I think we should at least have dinner. I hope all is well with you. Take care, hon...”

I rub my left foot against the sole of my right as I listen to the machine beep three times and finally rewind. Leaning back against the couch cushions I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let it out in a gasp. Falling back and letting myself slide into the body of the couch, my legs dangling over the arm, I stare at the ceiling. Wow. Holy fucking wow. I hadn’t heard Dave’s voice in over six months, since his girlfriend had caught some of my more racy emails to him and he in turn caught a major case of the ‘guilts’. He’d proclaimed his love for her loudly and condemned our ‘one night stand’, promising to stay true blue to his one love and never be led astray by such a Jezebel (me) again. I was hurt but respectful of his feelings and I had bowed out of the picture gracefully. The most contact we’d had was a few friendly, chatty emails - maybe 4 or 5 over the past several months. It still hurt, a warm tight spot in my stomach when I thought of what might have been.

That trip to New York. The trip where we had planned to meet again, almost a year after that conference in Chicago, and see if there really was anything between us or if it was all the false intimacy of a whirlwind 3-day affair after an extended internet relationship. We weren’t star-struck kids, we were both in our late twenties and knew better than to assume that we would get along long-term as well as we did online and on the phone. Dave lived in Sussex, England and his company had a branch in New York. The trip had been planned long before we ever slept together at the ill-fated conference, but he had requested not to be sent when things between us went awry. I think his girlfriend also had a hand in that, knowing I didn’t live too far from the city. Can’t say that I blamed her, really. I would have felt the same way in her position if it was my man exchanging racy emails with some strange woman over the ‘net. Little did she know how well he actually knew me, I thought spitefully, remembering being tied tightly to the bed at the Marriott while Dave knelt between my legs...

I pull my knees to my chest and chewed on my lip thoughtfully, remembering the first time I had ever actually seen what Dave looked like. We’d chatted for months online before that, really enjoying each other’s company. He was funny, clever, and incredibly biting in his humor - I’d loved it, often getting up early in the morning before work just to log on and chat for a bit before I had to go to work to get around the time difference. I told myself it didn’t really matter if he was an ogre, but hell, we all know that’s not true. As cerebral as a relationship may be, a cute ass is never anything to sneeze at.

Then one day he set up a webcam in his office and told me to take a look. I have to admit, I almost didn’t want to do it: Worried about shattering the illusions I may be harboring, I think. But I did look and ... wow. Wow oh wow, he was incredibly handsome. Black hair cut very short, with flecks of grey; blue eyes with very long lashes; high cheekbones; wide, friendly smile; lean, lanky body of a soccer player. Man, I had known I was in trouble then, it was the beginning of the end. He had way too much going for him for me not to fall ... hard. I push my hair off of my sweaty forehead and sit up abruptly. Enough of that, I try to tell myself. It’s all in the past. It was an exciting, erotic little diversion, but now it’s over. Annoyed, I grab the pasta off of the floor and stomp into the kitchen, throwing it hard into the cabinet and slamming the door shut. The shock was wearing off and now I was starting to get pissed. How dare he just call me like that, out of the blue, and think I’d be fine with it! Arrogant fuckhead.

Breathing heavily, I walk out onto the deck and watch the children in the parking lot below playing ‘kick the can.’ I lean against the wooden railing as a young boy and girl no more than ten or eleven years old toe off nose to nose, screaming at each other as to whether or not someone was ‘tagged’. I can barely hear the words, “Was not!”

“Was TOO!” but the anger in their faces is unmistakable. The other kids stand by, gaping, as it turns into a shoving match. I stand up and almost open my mouth to yell down at them then hesitate, laughing as the young girl, frizzy hair escaping from her ponytail, rears back and kicks her nemesis in the shin as hard as she can. Even from my perch I can see his face crumple into tears, then he’s a blur of running sneakers and flailing arms as he flees, wailing, into the apartment building. Satisfied, the young girl crosses her arms on her chest and turns on her heel to face the other players. “MY point!” she yells, running back to position. The other kids give one last look toward the door the other boy fled through, then turn their attention back to the game, their friend already forgotten.