Two Years in New York (Michael Mohr's "fictional memoir" chapter 12)

NYC "fictional memoir"

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

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PART 2: COVID

Chapter 12

We’d been hearing about the virus in increasing awareness—mainly in China and Italy—throughout January, but it wasn’t until February that it started to feel real in the United States. In early February the first U.S. COVID death was confirmed. I remember going to see my first doctor in New York City for a physical (I hadn’t had one in years) and mentioning the virus to him and him smiling and telling me there was nothing to worry about. He seemed so confident and certain. I was beginning to feel that gentle, pulsing unease I think we all were by then.

Sophia and I had finally hung out. She’d asked me to help her carry one of her massive 10x10 foot paintings ten blocks north on Amsterdam to deliver it to a young wealthy couple who’d bought it. By now it was freezing cold out, and there was a paper-thin layer of snow on the streets. We met around nine am. It was good to see her. She looked the same. The old energy was there just like before. But she seemed to have changed somehow.

We lifted the painting carefully out of her studio on the 12th floor on 66th and wobbled along with it together—she in front, me in back—north along Amsterdam. Sunlight beamed into our eyes. Cars rushed along Amsterdam. People pushed past us compulsively. Our boots crunched on the snow. Some glanced at us and at the large canvas; people seemed either curious, baffled, vexed, or annoyed about it. Hey, I thought, at least we hadn’t taken the train!

We spent the slow crab-walk doing a mix of laughing, looking away from each other, gazing at the sidewalk, finding our way carefully, and sometimes catching each other’s eyes, sparkling, genuine, our breath pluming out of our mouths in the cold morning winter air. There seemed to be just the smallest whiff of Christmas in the air, even though it was two and a half months in the future. That time of year, though; the winter seasons. The whole experience—The Artist’s Walk—was comic. Comic in a fun, good, easy way. I could enjoy doing almost anything with Sophia, as long as it was just the two of us. She made me feel safe, even when she seemed emotionally unpredictable.

After getting the painting successfully into the building on 76th, we then took a loading elevator all the way to the very top, to their apartment suite on the 35th floor. The views were incredible; simply breathtaking. There it was, New York. Manhattan. The apartment itself was modern, chic and gorgeous; it seemed to be straight out of Architectural Digest. High bare smooth white walls. Elegant, pale curtains pulled back revealing the city below and beyond. Floor-to-ceiling glass. White furry carpet. We stayed for an hour, helping them hang the painting above the couch in their nearly empty living room. They exchanged cash. We left.

It was after all this, getting lunch in Lincoln Center, that Sophia revealed her awkwardness. First she told me that she’d been frustrated and surprised that I hadn’t been in more regular contact with her while she was in Europe. She’d assumed, she said, after our months together and especially after that final night we shared, that we’d continue as we had been.

She’d hoped for consistent texting, frequent phone calls. I was shocked; I didn’t know what to say. I told her the truth: I’d thought she wanted space; I figured she’d be busy seeing the sights and creating art; I assumed she’d meet people and make new friends, perhaps meet some men; I didn’t want to rush anything; I’d done it out of respect and honor for her, for us. I wasn’t certain if this was really the truth though. Part of me had probably been “punishing” her for not having sex with me that last evening, petty and male and selfish as that was. And I still held resentment toward her hesitance around us being a couple. Her reasons didn’t make sense to me. And yet, seen from another perspective her reasons did make sense. And, if I were fully honest, I still had my own fears and reservations about a serious relationship with her. So, again, I was a hypocrite.

The second bit of information, though, hit me even harder. She proclaimed that, yes, in the end she’d been alone almost the whole time. She’d met a few other travelers and had coffee a few times with a couple interesting locals she met. But mostly she painted and explored and took trains around Europe. She’d been focused and introspective. However—and here she blushed and looked away, her fingers anxiously playing with her Vinaigrette-stained white napkin—she had, she admitted, made a likely mistake. Our eyes met when she said this. I knew she was about to say something profound. Or, at least, something which would change things between us.

“When I was in Italy,” she started. She cleared her throat. She sighed. Her eyes were averted again. She swallowed loudly and fiddled some more with her napkin. “Well…when I was in Italy…Florence…I was just, you know…really lonely…”

“Why didn’t you call me or message me?” I butted in, knowing I was being too aggressive. Whenever I got too excited about something I started interrupting. A bad, immature habit.

She cleared her throat. Shrugging, she said, “You were, like, so, I dunno…distant. Like I said before. It didn’t seem like you were interested in me.”

I shook my head. “Sophia.” I yearned to hold her hand but I knew this was not the time. Patience. “I swear to you I thought about you constantly. I really did. I never stopped thinking about you. About us. I missed you. I wanted to reach out, so many times, but, like I said, I just thought you wanted space.”

Finally she glared at me. “Why would I want space, Michael? That last night we shared was so special. Didn’t it mean anything to you?”

“Yes, of course it did.” I was flustered, feeling the crimson creeping into my cheeks. I was embarrassed and ashamed and annoyed all at once. “What about you? You could have reached out to me.”

She shook her head. “No. Why? That’s not fair. That’s not right! You were the one pushing so hard for a relationship. And then I go to Europe for two months and you just disappear!”

I sat back, in disbelief. My pastrami sandwich sat on my plate, the stink of mustard tangy against my nostrils. I’d eaten half of it. I took a large breath of air in, held it, slowly released. This was a Rubik’s Cube which I could not successfully solve.

“Look. Sophia. I care about you a great deal. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out as much as you’d hoped. I think we just had a misunderstanding. That last night together was magical. No question. But, again, I didn’t want to assert myself too directly when you were on your own solo art tour. We’re not a couple. You’ve had plenty of your own doubts about dating me. You were going for two months. You were fresh out of a toxic relationship. I guess I just thought, We’ll see what happens when she’s back. Let the Universe decide.”

She averted her eyes again for a moment and then faced me and said, “Well, it led me to making a decision when I was in Florence.”

My fingers slightly trembled. The reaction in my body was as if I were about to make a speech in front of a hundred strangers.

“What?” I said.

She swallowed again, that awkward dip of her head. She was now holding a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, anxiously, seemingly without notice. She lightly scraped her plate, a few pieces of lettuce remaining along with tiny swamps of Vinaigrette, with the fork, as if using some alien code.

Finally she shrugged and said, “I called Chad.”