In the southern suburbs of Manhattan you’ll find these immense water towers. They hover above the rest of the city, providing high-pressure to showers and sinks across the Island with water that, allegedly, contains high levels of estrogen, but as anyone on the North Shore will tell you, there’s a filter for that.
It’s winter; one of those nights the snow is frozen solid to the ground and darkness spreads across the city at 4pm. We’re all inside Murphy’s—the place you find yourself when you get out of work late and you’re too tired to stay in The City. It’s a full house tonight; there’s this Guthrie-esque musician, he’s playing something John Mayer and we sway either because it’s nostalgic or from too much mulled wine.
Sylvie and I are plotting the matriarchy when Ben approaches. He’s tall, got this shaggy yellow hair and the forming of a goatee. He takes a seat, Budweiser in hand.
“How’s life treating ya, gals?” It’s been two years. He’s aged but in a sad way.
“What have you been up to?” I ask him.
“Been working lights at Rosie’s.”
“Any good shows this season?”
He scoffed. “Oklahoma again.”
“Cheers to that,” we drain our glasses together, old times, and Sylvie goes to the bar for another round. Ben turns to me, tilting his head in her direction.
“Damn, is she seeing anyone?” I can’t help but smile.
“Yeah, we’re together.” Beat. He snaps his head towards me.
“What? Like, you two?”
“Is that even…possible?”
“It sure is.”
He considers it, takes a swig. “I could be into that, I guess.”
No one fucking asked you, Ben.
Sylvie comes back with two beers. I wrap my arm around her waist to make my point. Ben can’t decide if he’s disgusted or turned on.
“Whose place are we going to?” He asks. Sylvie shrugs. It’s like this: they always feel entitled to a space in your bed.
These words by Annie Rubin were inspired by the colour of Sarah Williams
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