Email | Print

It was another Monday in the City, a summer evening transformed into a magical event: the drive-in movie at Bryant Park. I stood in front of the concession stand near the F train entrance, waiting on a friend.

As it neared seven o'clock, Pietro walked closer. "Let's get a seat at a table with chairs," he suggested.

It was early. The movie, Dial M for Murder, would begin when it was dark enough to see the screen. As we settled in, he pulled a container of strawberries out of a bag. He took out some plums.

"You know how much the store wanted for these?" he asked. "So I walked out with them."

We ate the stolen fruit in silence. Strawberries never tasted so good. I unwrapped my tuna sandwich from the lunch bag I'd brought. I opened a bottle of iced tea.

We talked about music. I knew all the references he made to every obscure punk band from the 80s. I'd spent my teen years with my ears peeled to the radio, listening for salvation, alone in my gingham-checked bedroom in a suburban house.

Does he want to be more than friends? I decided he's just a companion, because looking for love could get in the way of enjoying myself, as if I had some kind of deadline for romance. Is it just me, or does it get tense for other women when they meet someone for the first time? I fear men will think I'm on the prowl, just because I initiate contact or look them in the eye.

As the sky fell dark, other movie-goers settled in around us. If it hadn't rained the night before, we could've brought blankets and sat on the grass. I enjoyed myself. Pietro laughed, "My parents were so poor that when they said we were going on vacation, they turned to a picture of Italy in the encyclopedia."

"My parents were so poor," I continued, "they bought a dining room table without chairs so we had to eat standing up."

This started a round of rebuttals that got us going until the movie started. The films are a weekly event in the summer and they are free. Good company and a good time—what more could anyone ask for?

"A bottle of Cabernet, some olives, and thou," perhaps.

I turned 40 in April. Two months before this milestone birthday, I was in tears in my psychiatrist's office.

"What are you upset about not having achieved by this time?" he asked.

"I wanted to be in a relationship."

"You're like most 40-year-old women in the city. It has nothing to do with your illness," he laughed. I can count on him to cheer me up, and offer such flip ideas.

I've been in e-mail correspondence with someone from an Internet dating service, and I'll see how that goes. For now, I have good friends I like to spend time with, like Pietro. Some of my best friends are guys.

One of them, Todd, goes to school in North Dakota and talks with me on the phone every week. I can tell him about my trials in the love department, and he's always encouraging. We meet on holidays and during the summer.

In this season of sunlight, I come alive. I'm more energetic than I am in the winter, when my mood is low. As soon as the spring comes, I'm lifted. The hot nights in the City are perfect for adventuring with friends. In this cool town, memories can be had for a song.

Oh, I admit I want a boyfriend to share electric kisses. For now, I'll enjoy the stolen fruit.