Devora Writes

Further Confessions of a Happy Single Person

2009-07-13T23:29:00.001-04:00

Everyone wants you to be happy. That's their line. "If it makes you happy." Especially if you are single, your happiness is everyone else's business. People will tell you what to wear, what to post on Facebook, and even where to live, because you are single, and clearly, there is no way you are happy in your current state. You need all this advice to get you married off, because you are obviously not going to be happy until you do.
I challenge this theory. I am single, and I am pretty happy. Obviously, I want to get married, but marriage is not the secret to life’s happiness. Someone else cannot make you happy. Only YOU can. Yes, your spouse will complete you. But if you ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
I do volunteer work for an organization called Heart Mind and Soul which, among other things, encourages Jewish teens to realize their own potential. One thing we try to instill in the teens is that they have their own unique abilities, strengths, and talents, and that just by being themselves, they are powerful people and can achieve anything. I wonder, if I told these same kids, and by the way, you actually aren’t okay and will never be okay or amount to anything until you get married. What would that teach them? What are we telling people when we say, you will never be okay as a single person?
There is a lot of pressure in our society to get married. It starts at around 18 and doesn’t stop until we walk down that aisle. Everyone laments the “shidduch crisis” and tells us that basically, we are pitiable and unfortunate until we get married. The younger generation then panics. Are they doomed to be just as pathetic? This unreasonable pressure creates a cycle of low self-esteem, a rush to get married, and often results in broken engagements or divorces because of this desperation. We as a society have created a fear of singlehood instead of using it as a means to better ourselves for the partner we will hopefully one day have.
I have learned a lot in the last ten years living on my own. I have learned how to balance a checkbook. Walk into a room where I know nobody and leave with invitations to four different families for Shabbos. I have learned how to drive, change a flat tire, negotiate a lease, make sushi, and how to teach. Maybe I would have learned these things from my husband if I had gotten married a few years ago. But there is something incredibly rewarding about having learned these things on my own. There is great value in the things I have learned and taught myself. From hosting a Shabbat meal for twenty to checking the oil in my car to teaching a room full of high school students about Shabbos, these will make me a better wife and mother when I finally do get married.
I want to get married. But until I do find that person, I will not sit around being bitter and depressed. Because the kind of person that I want to spend the rest of my life with is not looking for a sad and mopey person.

At the end of the day, I am happy that I am working on making myself a better person—the person who will eventually merit the partner I am looking for. He will not “make” me happy, but he will benefit from me being a happy person.
If we could take a step back from generating a greater crisis and instill in people to learn how to be happy with themselves first, it would create a revolution. Instead of advising singles to settle, to move, or to wear lipstick, we would have people growing and learning what makes them truly content. Happy people would be looking for other happy people. Valuing themselves enough to find the partner worthy of them. Imagine if we could teach that to our kids. Crisis averted. Happiness established.

My Grandma a"h

2009-03-26T21:05:00.000-04:00

There are three kinds of people in this world. There are the “glass half-empty” people. They walk around complaining about how they got the short end of the stick, how life is unfair, and how everything is pretty much miserable. Then there are the “glass half-full” folks. They are all happy and see that their lives are full of goodness. Most people fall into these two categories. But there is that third group, full of rare individuals, who acknowledge that while they might have shortcomings or obstacles to overcome, they are still blessed. These are the people who are just happy to have a glass.

My grandmother was one of these people. Despite a life of pain, she was always upbeat and positive. Her eye troubled her terribly for over 20 years, and when asked how she was, she would say, “the eye is the eye,” and move on to all her blessings—her beautiful children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. No matter where she lived, she made a home. She spread her unconditional love to anyone who had the good fortune to cross her path, and never spoke a bad word about anyone. She had her glass, and she was grateful for it.

My grandmother taught me many things—how to sew, how to tie my shoes, how to swim. But most of all, she taught be how to be awesome despite everything. That no matter what was poured into your glass, and no matter how much, each and every thing was beautiful and worth loving. That just by being who you are, you are fabulous. And of all the lessons she taught me, I hope to continue learning this one the most.

Dance of Glory

2008-03-17T16:26:00.000-04:00

It is a noisy, crowded room. Throngs of people jostle in, dancing and singing in unrestrained joy. The lights above are bright; there is heat and sweat and tears, together with loud voices in raucous harmony. One man stands off to the side in his own celebration, relishing his surroundings while completely oblivious to them. Despite his solitude his ecstasy encompasses the gaiety of all the revelers around him.

At first glance, the man appears to be dancing and nothing more. Here, in the corner, holding a scroll, and dancing. He even looks a bit odd, his beard flowing with the rhythm as he moves. He holds the scroll tightly in his arms, lovingly, respectfully. However there is more to this picture than what meets the eye. This is not just a man dancing with a holy object, this is something stronger, deeper, and more sacred.

Here is a man dancing alone in a crowded room, an old man with a lined face and glowing eyes. Eyes so full of rapture and bliss they seem to take over, so suddenly there are no lines, just a jubilant radiance emanating from his face. He dances with the scroll as a groom dances with a bride, with reverence and awe.

The scroll shines beautifully in a mantle of blue velvet, adorned with a silver crown in majestic glory. He holds the scroll to his heart, with great intimacy, singing his own sweet melody, his hands shaking, his heart pounding. He hugs his bride with all his strength, kissing her with love. They are united in an everlasting bond of love. This is not just a man dancing, This is a man dancing in the service of G-d.

Fine

2008-01-27T12:49:00.001-05:00

She didn’t know what to feel. She groped for a chair, something to support her as her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, stunned. She wouldn’t cry. Her breath caught in her chest, she took big gulps of air but she choked, and then the tears came. Memories assaulted her, she tried in vain to prevent them from coming, but she couldn’t. Playing piano…reading out loud…washing dishes…staring at the ceiling. Such simple things—she would never before have deemed them important. Air. She needed air. Her hands gripped the counter and she rose to her feet. Somehow, she made it into the cold morning. The sun hadn’t yet started to rise. She stared at the sky, challenging it. Would the sun dare rise on such a day? She was cold. She wondered if she would ever feel warm again, if she would ever feel whole and complete—like a person. She didn’t feel like a person. Suddenly, it was daylight. How long had she been standing there? She turned to look back at the house, reluctant to go inside, to have the images flood her memory. Yet here, too, on the porch, were reminders of the life she’d had yesterday. Yesterday and all the days before. Here on the porch, sitting on a lazy summer day. Drinking hot tea, wrapped up in blankets to watch the leaves change color and fall, cuddling up as the rain and snow came down. She sat down in the wicker chair, the cushion old and worn. It wasn’t her chair. It belonged to yesterday. She felt odd sitting in it. Her arm brushed something furry—it was an old teddy bear. She picked it up and drew it close, holding it tightly in her arms, tears coursing down her cheeks. She hadn’t sought comfort from a teddy bear since she was five years old, and now she clutched it as if it were her lifeline. Pain filled her lungs and she shook her head violently to block out the images she was remembering. She didn’t want to remember. Remembering hurt. A voice called to her from inside and the teddy bear slipped from her grasp. She had to focus. She had to be strong. She stood, gathering all she had left inside of her, breathing deeply, and she went into the house. The voice called her again, and she hurried towards it, assuring it that she was fine and that everything was fine, yet she wondered if she really was and if things would ever really be fine.

A Year Older, A Year Wiser?

2008-01-02T14:39:00.000-05:00

Birthdays are always interesting. They are either exciting and joyous, or miserable and filled with anxiety. I used to look forward to my birthday the way all little kids should--giddy with anticipation, excitement for the fun and the possibilities for being a year older. One day, a special day just for me (and my twin sister), to be showered with extra love and attention (and presents!). Birthday parties increased the excitement, with friends and games, puppet shows, clowns, and cake (and lots of presents!). Who could possibly NOT like their birthday?

As I got older, I started to get it: I was getting older. Older = less fun and more responsibilities. Birthday parties fell by the wayside as real life interfered with birthday fantasy land, but to me, there was still something exciting about a birthday. Throughout college, I would go out to dinner with friends and to a movie. Meet my sisters for cake and coffee. Go to a show with my parents. One year, all my friends got together and bought me a bracelet from Tiffany’s. (The next year, ironically, they all forgot my birthday. I’m mostly over it. Mostly.) For my 24th birthday, I threw my own party, complete with homemade mini-eggrolls and meatballs and martini glasses I bought to complete my makeshift bar. And then I turned 25.

My 25th birthday was about a week before I was leaving New York for my new job in Atlanta, so I had a combined Birthday/Going Away party at one of our favorite hangouts. We all toasted each other and ate our double-decker grilled cheese sandwiches, and then it hit me. I was 25 years old. Panic gripped me and I reached for the nearest beverage to cool my throat as I started to freak out. Unfortunately, I had grabbed my friend’s Long Island Iced Tea and, as I coughed and sputtered, I wondered how it was that I had turned 25 with a blink of an eye. It was the Ultimate Birthday; I had a whole new life to look forward to, the magic of a birthday I had always loved, and suddenly, I didn’t want it. I wanted to stay 24, with my same life, my same job, where even if I wasn’t so happy all the time, at least I knew where I stood. At least everything was familiar. At least I wasn’t 25.

25 invokes a real grow-up age. You are no longer a “young adult,” or even an “early 20s.” You are 25. You are a Real Person. After years of complaining about being treated like a kid, that was suddenly all I wished for. I wanted to go to bed and hide under the covers until it was over. But then I would be turning 26. Another year older. Hiding under the covers and reverting back to being 7 was not going to happen.

So here I am, a few days shy of 26 and totally freaking out. What happened to all the things I was going to do with my life? Get my Masters in Social Work. Get my Masters in Public Administration. Lose weight. Write a book. Be successful. Make a difference. Get married! What have I done? Cher famously warbled “If I could turn back time…” Well, you can’t turn back time. You can’t go back and get a rewrite. You can only take comfort in your successes, resolve to make up your failures, and look forward to the new year of the new you, older and hopefully a little wiser.

Thanks Jack for your assistance!

She Doesn't Know

2007-12-31T18:07:00.001-05:00

(I wrote this a few years ago for a creative writing class when I was in my poetry phase. Let me know what you think)

She doesn't know right now.

She doesn't know right now
there will be a time
when she doesn't feel guilty for breathing.

She doesn't know right now
there will come a day
when she can smile without pain,
and the sun will shine brightly.
She doesn't know.

She doesn't know right now
it is okay to sleep in the dark alone.
She doesn't know
that her exhaustion will fade.
She doesn't know right now
what it is like not to be afraid.

She doesn't know how to pay her bills.
She doesn't know right now that's okay.
She doesn't know.

She knows that she is scared.
She knows that she is alone,
she's never been alone before.
She knows that dark clouds are hanging
over her once beautiful and clear horizon.
She knows the world is a cold and lonely place.

She knows that she was chosen to live.
That's what she knows.

In the Driver's Seat-EXCLUSIVE PREMIERE!

2007-12-18T23:42:00.001-05:00

I recently learned how to drive. It’s a long story how a 25 year old girl in this day and age couldn’t drive, but basically, I just never did it. As a young adult living in New York, I was never so motivated, utilizing public transportation and my sister as a chauffer whenever necessary. Then I left the city.

Atlanta is not the best place to live when you are a non-driver. There are no subways and buses traversing the entire city, there are occasional buses and trains that do not exactly take you from point A to point B. As someone who hates to ask for help, begging rides from my new friends was like pulling my own teeth. Relying on the kindness of my friends, neighbors, and co-workers, all practically strangers, was a difficult and complicated experience. I started walking to work, organizing my schedule around other people so they would not have to go out of their way for me. I once commented to a friend that I was running out of toilet paper, and an hour later her mother called. “I’m coming to pick you up,” she said sternly. “Next time you’d better call me.”

Despite the incredible benevolence of the people around me, I constantly felt guilty. Guilt warred with fear and uncertainty over driving, but I knew that I had to move past it. I could not live this way any more. I studied harder than I ever had (if only I had applied myself like that in high school!), got my permit, and called the driving school. It was time to drive.

Chris picked me up at work and had me sit in the driver’s seat. He reviewed gas pedal and brake pedal, then directed me to drive. I held the steering wheel in a death grip and inched forward. A car appeared on the road and I slammed on the brakes. “Um, okay,” the instructor said patiently. “Let’s start this over. Relax.” Week after week, we practiced, driving all over the city. Some days were good, other days I reverted back to being afraid of the other cars on the road, but little by little, I became a driver. I drove on the highway, on winding side roads, and parked again and again in empty parking lots. I secretly made an appointment for my license test, sure that I would fail. Chris took me to the DMV on a bright, sunny day in July, five months after I had first slid into the driver’s seat. My tester was an older gentleman, not very chatty, which did nothing to calm my butterflies. I’m extra chatty when I’m nervous, and his grunts in response to my comments about his sweater, the weather, and Atlanta traffic made me more anxious. But then, about twenty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot at the DMV and he scribbled on his notepad. “Get more confident, and you’ll be fine,” he said, with a hint of a smile. I was confused. “Huh? I passed?”
“Yes, you passed. You did a nice job.”
The tester wished me luck and left the car. I sat there, stunned. Then I called my mother.
“Hi, Mom,” I could barely contain my excitement. “Can I borrow your car?”

Six months later, I have a whole new world open to me. I can visit the high school during lunch and see the kids I work with. Go to the supermarket whenever I want. Run errands. Go to the drive-thru window at Starbucks. Mundane things I had only dreamed of but had never thought could ever be a reality. More importantly, I am trying to repay the kindness that others showed me by using my car. I volunteer to give people rides, grocery shop for individuals who are sick, and try to use my driving as a gift not just for myself, but for others.

Confessions of a Happy Single Person

2007-12-18T23:25:00.000-05:00

I bought couches. They are beige, with button detail on the sides and dark wood trim. I bought a variety of pillows to go on them, chocolate brown and light blue—silk, suede, and cotton. I rearranged the living room furniture (what there was of it) to accommodate my new purchases. It looked great. Friends came over to admire my new set-up. They all oohed and ahhed. And one said, “What are you buying couches for? You’re still single.”

I thought of my china (that I had “borrowed” from my mom), my silverware, my glass goblets a friend had given me, my bookcases, my beautiful hand-blown red glass bowl. Why did I have any of it? I looked at my friend. “I’m still a person,” I reminded him. “I still want to sit down on something.” As I have moved apartments, acquired new furniture, added and thrown away pieces, I have always strived to make my home as nice as possible. Yes, I am single, but who says that means I can’t have a set of Cutco knives, or a fancy headboard, or couches? The home that I create as a single person is home to others, and will hopefully one day propel me into a home as a not- single person. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to be happy in my current home.

I get it a lot. The “why do you have nice things when you are single” question. I have a question too. Why does being single mean I can only use paper plates and get my furniture from the garbage pile on the side of the street? Since when has being single become a disease, that I am restricted to using other people’s trash to furnish my living space? In my opinion, never. A few years ago, when my sister and I were both living in New York, she got engaged. I naturally started organizing a bridal shower with two of her friends. As the date drew closer, one of the co-hosts emailed me on behalf of herself and the other girl. “Being that we are both married we have the space and utensils to really host,” she wrote. “I really don't see a reason why single people couldn't get on the train and come downtown.” So, since she was married, and only she and the other host lived downtown, the 20 or so single guests (including the bride) should shlep 45 minutes on the train because…we were single? Did she really think because she was married, therefore she had a better apartment, better serving things than me? I have a three-tiered server and a trifle bowl too. And I bet mine is nicer.

There is a lot of pressure to get married in the Orthodox world, a lot of pressure. With two married sisters, I feel it a lot. I feel it when well-meaning friends of my parents ask me if I have tried Frumster, tell me “I have got to meet” their neighbor’s cousin, and gently suggest that I wear more lipstick. I feel the pressure every week, when I need to come up with Shabbos plans so I do not eat alone. There was pressure last year when I decided to move away from New York, the “Jewish dating capital of the world,” to Atlanta, where there is pretty much no dating life. My friends thought I was crazy. My parents were hesitant. But I was tired of the scene, I was bored of going to Starbucks and Times Square and making small talk. I was bored with my life, and I wanted to go some place where I felt like I could make a difference, where I was not stressed out all the time about my next date. In a lot of ways, I should be more anxious now that I am in a social wasteland. Maybe the pressure is even greater now, being on my own, one of a handful of single people in a city of young couples and families. It is hard to be single in a Jewish community, it is hard to be a part of the community when I don’t have kids or a husband to mingle with other couples after shul. But I still have a beautiful Shabbos table when I invite guests. I enjoy giving the kibbud of making Kiddush and motzi to different visitors. I will not stop cooking gourmet food and homemade challah and make my Shabbos less enjoyable. I will make myself a part of a community, single or not single, because that is the kind of person I am. I am not freaking out. I am not bitter. I do not begrudge my friends’ happiness when they get engaged and married. I am just waiting patiently for my turn, when I can move my furniture and dishes into another apartment with someone else.

I often wonder if married people have a special kind of amnesia, that they forget what it’s like to live in this day and age and be single. Now that they are married, and they got countless household items off their registries, do they forget how to create their own happiness? Of course I want to get married (know anyone?) but why be miserable in the meantime? There are some great things about being single. Sale on AirTran? Go to New York for the weekend. Want to bake apple pie in the middle of the night? There is no one that you will be keeping awake when you are chopping and mixing. People think nothing of calling me in the middle of the night to ask for advice --wait, actually, that’s not a positive. I stay up all night cooking gourmet meals, watching movies, or reading Harry Potter. I can still host great Shabbos meals, spend quality time with my family, and have fun with my friends. Sometimes there is no greater feeling than stretching out on my couch for an entire day, reading a magazine and watching the rain. And yes, sometimes I’d love some company. But there is something great in being alone and being okay with being alone. Especially if I’m on my couch.

(Soon to be published in the Jewish Action!)

(Atara--you asked for it, you got it :-) )

Shabbos for a Single Girl

2007-12-18T12:04:00.001-05:00

You are having a bad day. It is Erev Shabbos, you were up all night cooking for your 13 guests and you grabbed a nap between 5:30 and 6:30 am before rushing off to work, where your desk is piled high and you know, you just know it is going to be one of those days. The phone has been ringing off the hook, the copy machine is broken, and you have just spilled your untouched coffee all over your boss’ letters, which you will now have to reprint. You dab at your skirt, which is rapidly absorbing hot liquid and scalding your legs, when the phone rings again. It is your friend, who is bored at work, and as she prattles on endlessly your mind is screaming (not only from your newly acquired burn) about the injustice of it all and your work is piling up. You are attempting to remember the last time you went to the bathroom, ate, or drank something and desperately trying not to reach through the phone to your friend, who, oblivious to your plight, is talking about how she just watched Grey’s Anatomy on her computer at work because she was soooo bored. But then she gets your attention. Then she makes you not care about getting first degree burns on your legs or the fact that you have not watched TV in over a month. “So I heard Boy is in town this weekend,” she says casually. “I think he was planning on stopping by your place just before dessert, he was going to come with the Guys.”
Boy!!!!!
Boy as in Boy you walked home with from a dinner two months ago and he said he would call you. Boy who never called. Boy who is clearly your bashert and you have been languishing and obsessing about. Boy who you thought forgot you. And now, suddenly, your day is better.
Suddenly, work does not matter. Nothing else matters. Forget the copier and the phone. Forget the letters. Forget going to the bathroom. Because Boy is in town, and he is coming for dessert with the Guys. Which means...you need more dessert. You need dessert so amazing Boy will be sorry he never called you. You need dessert so amazing, Boy will ask you to marry him as soon as he tastes your creation. You need to leave the office. A quick glance at the clock reminds you that you have two hours left of work, and 5 hours until Shabbos. Your friend is still on the phone. You hang up on her abruptly as your boss walks in and thrust the newly printed letters in his face, silently begging him to hurry as he slowly scrawls his signature on every page. The second he finishes you throw the stack at your coworker and beseech her to stuff the envelopes for you so you can finish up. The clock is ticking.

You have an hour until work is over, and you are panting from the exhaustion of working at warp speed. You convince your boss you need to leave, show him your clean desktop (after shoving half the files in your drawer). You run the ten blocks to the nail salon and spend a precious twenty minutes ensuring your nails and eyebrows look just as amazing as your dessert will. You run into the subway station, waiting for the train, tapping your foot impatiently and trying not to move away from the man sleeping on the bench too obviously. There is suddenly an unintelligible announcement met with groans, and you don’t have time to decipher what it means. You run out of the subway, and wave at the fleet of cabs who drive by. They all ignore you. You run to the next corner and hop up and down, your feet already aching from those super-cute one size to small loafers you had to have, arms flailing as you try not to look too desperate. You drop your arms to consider how much time it will take if you run to the bus, and then…a car screeches to a halt beside you. You speed uptown (only getting stuck in two traffic jams) while listening to your cab driver complain about the Henry Hudson Parkway, his family, and his life as cabbie. Four hours to go.

A quick glance through your cookbooks and you are off to the store, still running but now you had the good sense to put on sneakers. You toss things in your cart, trying not to be too rude as you rush by friends and neighbors who all need to say hi to you, ask you how you make your cauliflower, or want to come for dinner. And then you are sifting and mixing and baking and building cookie structures, and then you remember…what are you going to wear?! You fling open your closet doors, praying that your blue dress, the one that makes you look a size 4 (okay, a size 8. Well, a 10) is hanging up and clean. You heave practically the entire contents of your closet onto your bed as you frantically search for it…and no. Your dress is not there. Your dress is nowhere to be found. Because, you suddenly remember, your magic blue dress is still at the cleaners. The cleaners downtown. Despair reigns. But then, a ray of light shines in from the window and hits…the Macy’s bag in the back. The Macy’s bag with the gorgeous pink sweater and brown skirt. You are saved! You yank off the tags and return to the kitchen to rescue your smoldering chocolate sauce. Three hours to go.

You are rearranging your furniture to accommodate your tables and chairs when the doorbell rings and your neighbors announce their Shabbos plans got cancelled, and can they come for dinner? All three of them, plus their two friends? You re-rearrange the furniture, run all over the building looking for chairs, when you shriek and wonder…DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH FOOD? You sprint to the party store to get more paper goods, then back to the supermarket so you can make more chicken and couscous. And maybe more cauliflower. And kugel. Two hours to go.

You are starting to sweat as you feverishly cook and race around your apartment, trying to clean up and make it look like you are a neat person. You take all the clothes off your bed and throw it into your closet. All the magazines and papers you dump into a basket. You sweep, plump pillows, run to the fourth floor to borrow a mop, take out the garbage and spray Febreze all over. You know there is no way you are going to watch today’s Oprah special, and going to shul is not looking too likely either. One hour to go.

You are trying to fit all the food in the oven while the chicken finishes cooking and you still need to make a salad. The paper goods are piled high, waiting to be put out. You trip over the open oven door and burn your ankle and you go to open the door. Your friend has arrived and you hurl the plates at her as you dash into the shower. It is the fastest shower you have ever taken, and then you are blow-drying and straightening and you have two chipped nails and your friend tries to fix them as you desperately apply makeup. Lots of makeup. 20 minutes to go.

Your brown suede heels are buried under the clothes that now cover the floor of your closet, and you throw all the clothes back out as you try to locate them. You stand up and your carefully straightened hair is sticking up like you were electrocuted. Ten minutes to go.
Your friend is shrieking about going to shul and you wave her off as you straighten with one hand and reapply lipstick with the other. Five minutes. Into the eighteen minutes, one of G-d’s greatest gifts to the female.

Shabbos. You look perfect. You light candles and speed-daven mincha as the sun sets, and then it is salad, ice the cake, and redo all the napkins. You finish just as the door opens and your house is filled with people. You drag out each course, encouraging zemiros, asking questions and telling story after story, giving Boy plenty of time to get there. Your guests are looking at you like you are insane as you request Menucha V’Simcha again, in “another tune.” You cannot put off dessert any longer. You pull your friend into the kitchen to help you bring out your four uber-elaborate, gourmet, things-you-only-see –in-Bon Apetit-magazine desserts to the table.
“Where is he?” You hiss.
“Who?”
“Boy!”
She shrugs. “He was in shul.”
Great. He did not get stuck in Long Island for Shabbos. He is actually in town, a few blocks away.
He is standing you up.

You slowly carry out the desserts amid much applause and you steal a glance at the clock. It is late. No wonder your guests want dessert. Your guests want to go home and sleep. You want to sleep. After bentching (which you dragged out insisting everyone sing out loud) you walk everyone to the door. Your apartment is in shambles. You change into a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants and you start to clean when there is a faint knock on the door. You yank on a skirt and fling open the door. There is Boy. Boy and his posse of “the Guys” and…a girl? A perfectly groomed actual size 4 girl who is…with them.
He grins. “Hey,” he says. “Are you still serving dessert?”
You look at him, with his disarming, cocky grin, at the Guys, and at the girl. You think of your three-tiered chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and cream filling, and of the mini lemon bundt cakes, and the trifle, and the apple pies with homemade caramel sauce, and all the leftovers in your fridge. You smile back. “Thanks so much for coming by,” you say. “I’m actually already cleaning up. Nice to see you.” You close the door. And lock it. Because you do not need him. You do not need Boy who didn’t call and showed up with an entourage. You do not need him to love you or your pie. You are jubilant. You are fabulous. You collapse onto the couch. You are exhausted.

with apologies to Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus