Buy Her A Diamond Before It’s Too Late
One day Fen and I are walking through the Diamond District in midtown and this guy approaches us. He’s huge — maybe six foot six, built like Goliath, with long dusty hair in free-forming dreadlocks. The old army jacket he’s wearing looks like it hasn’t been washed since the Civil War and he’s holding up a cardboard sign, the warning handwritten: The End Is Coming. An urban prophet. Just as we’re about to walk past him, he takes a step towards Fen and says in this low, incredibly menacing way, “Buy her a diamond before it’s too late.”
So what’s the safest thing to do in New York City when confronted with the bizarre? Keep walking. And we did. Fen even gripped my elbow in this protective gesture and hurried us along. We were well down the next block before we felt safe enough to stop. And then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. What a mad street performance, we thought!
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the Urban Prophet and what he’d said. Buy her a diamond before it’s too late. Only, the message started to quickly change like a virus mutating to adapt to its host and for weeks I kept thinking, “Will he buy me a diamond before it’s too late?” It became a fundamental question. I saw diamonds everywhere.
I suppose in my heart of hearts, I knew Fen wasn’t the kind of guy who was ever going to propose. Not to any girl. So my diamonds began to sting a little.
Hmmm. Maybe before I continue, I should explain Fen a little. That is, maybe I should explain me a little. To explain who I am. To explain who I’m not. For instance, I’m not the kind of girl to jump into things. In fact, as a rule, I always prefer inaction to action. I even find a kind of beauty in not acting, the way you can go backwards and forwards, up and down, even sideways along all those wonderful theoretical pathways of what-ifs. Once you act, it’s all over. The road is a rut and the rut crisscrosses all the other ruts of everyone around you. And that scares me.
Fen had been a strange case of action. Of complete, uncharacteristic action.
About a year or so ago, I was having drinks at a bar with my best friend Lucy. I look across the room. There, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a bunch of guys, is a face from the very distant past. Fen. Without thinking, I get up. I start walking; in a heartbeat I’m right in front of him. I can feel his breath. Because my lips are on his and I’m kissing him.
And it wasn’t a quick peck. No, this lasted a good minute. Maybe more, my lips lingering and lingering, my hands moving to his neck and then to the base of his head. I’m a little fuzzy about exactly how long I kissed him because it was one of those moments when time totally disappears from the equation of the universe. Time, sound, other bodies. Except there was still smell, the dizzying smell of Fen which, just thinking about it, is making the world swirl around me even now. Do you know, you can still remember smells from your infancy? Maybe even the womb, they say.
And I wasn’t drunk either. At least, not from alcohol. Because I’d had just one shot of tequila, and I need at least three shots to get that drunk. Although, one itsy-bitsy glass of sake has me sliding off my chair. Lucy once told me it had to do with esters, these chemical compounds that make things like ripe peaches so irresistible. That made Fen so irresistible.
I hadn’t seen Fen since the sixth grade. I can’t even believe that I recognized him. Fourteen years had gone by and we were nothing like the kids we’d been. Of course, I hoped he didn’t recognize me.
After the kiss was over, and I still had his head between my hands, I looked directly into his eyes and smiled. I was so happy. How in the world could I explain that? Without one iota of embarrassment I released him and walked away like the kiss had absolutely nothing to do with me. I could hear all the guys in the room hooting and hollering and I still wasn’t embarrassed. I was just genuinely happy.
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