Misery Loves Cabernet by Kim Gruenenfelder

Author:Kim Gruenenfelder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Griffin
Published: 2009-08-18T04:00:00+00:00

When listening to stories from men, if the stories don’t completely make sense: Cherchez La Femme.

Jordan doesn’t say anything else for a few minutes. He gives me hugs, forces smiles, and clearly debates in his mind how much more to tell me.

I decide to go for broke. “So, who was the woman?”

“What?”

“You said there was a girl involved. Who was she?”

“Her name was Stacey. We dated my senior year in college. She moved to New York to be an actress, and I guess, at least according to my parents, I found an excuse to follow her.”

“I take it that relationship didn’t go well.”

Jordan stops to face me. “Raise your left arm up, over your head for a minute.”

I do.

“Okay, now keep it there as long as you can,” Jordan says.

I stare at him dubiously as I keep my left arm raised over my head for what feels like an hour.

“Getting tired yet?” Jordan asks me.

I nod my head.

“Keep it up there. Are you getting so tired your arm hurts, and you can’t stand it anymore?”

I nod my head again.

“That’s what dating an actress is like,” Jordan concludes.

I chuckle as I put down my arm.

We begin to walk under the Brooklyn Bridge. Jordan suddenly stops, and happily announces, “Ah . . . we’re here.”

I look over at a green awning announcing Grimaldi’s Pizzeria, with a red sign underneath stating, COAL BRICK OVEN. Outside the windowed door, a line of people patiently wait in their overcoats, sweaters, and sweatshirts.

“Have you ever had coal brick oven pizza?” Jordan asks, his face now beaming.

“I don’t think so,” I say, trying to be cheerful. Even though all I can think about is an ex-girlfriend I know nothing about (except that he moved three thousand miles from home to be with her), and his confession to thinking about moving three thousand miles away from me.

“Now, before we begin,” Jordan says, pulling out the Italian red wine he bought earlier, “We need to have our provisions.” He opens the bottle with the corkscrew, and quickly pours some wine into two of the plastic cups we got from the wine store. “This is the best pizza in the world. But the line takes a while.”

We wait in line outside for forty-five minutes, polishing off the bottle during that time. Jordan says nothing more of his New York past, and I decide not to push any further. For now. Frankly, I’m having too much fun talking to other people in line, and stealing kisses from my boyfriend when no one seems to be paying attention.

When we get inside the restaurant, I bask in the warmth of the air, and the smells of the thin crust.

It’s another twenty minutes before we get our pizza, but all that time waiting gives us lots of time for talking. But instead of discussions of moving, and the failures of our youth, we stay on the safe topics: other people. We gossip about Drew and the new movie. I talk about how I am to be a bridesmaid yet again.

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