Le Dive.

I’d always passed by this place, and never went in. 

Probably because I couldn’t afford it. 

Maybe because of my shellfish allergy. 

I spotted a server I used to work with during my time as a host in the West Village. 

“I actually know that guy–”

I pointed to my former colleague showing the happy hour brunch menu to a five-top. 

“Anyway, I like bell hooks, James Baldwin. I was more into reading plays the last few years actually but–”

“No. Contemporary authors.”

Contemporary authors. Right. Honest mistake. 

“Uhm, well, actually since you’ve mentioned it geez, I haven’t really read any contemporary prose in a while.”

Contemporary prose. 

Geez. Fuck me.

That sounded more literary. More writer-like. 

More proof that I was writing a novel that was going nowhere-like. 

I needed to read more. 

Fuck more. Read more. 

Fuck more. Read more.

Write more. Drink more. 

I took a sip of the white wine I ordered and watched as he sipped on an absurdly presented Bloody Mary, the fish bar’s speciality, with a celery stalk half the size of my forearm sticking out of its glass. 

We met at a concert on Bowery the night before. I was fully loaded after pregaming a half-pint of vodka. 

Metaphysics. His divorce. My breakup. 

Loud psychedelic indie music and tried-and-true fans singing along to every word.

I went home with him. Hoping he’d make me sing something else. 

“I have some authors I’ll send you. Actually, I was reading this book called Fuccboi. It takes place in Philly, where you went to school.”

I forgot we spoke about that. 

“Did you know that's a real term? Fuck boy?”

He looked at me, eyes wide, genuinely perplexed. 

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s a Gen Z thing. I didn’t know that.”

Three times now. The whole age thing. 

“I’m pretty sure it's been around longer than that.”

It hadn’t.

“Really? What’s an example of a fuck boy to you?” 

The waitress came around and took our orders. Me, smoked salmon Benedict. Him something rolled in rice that I was allergic to. 

“I dunno. Maybe downtown douche artist wannabes.”

I’d been burned before. 

“Like those guys that wear those white shirts and loafers and pretend to care about art and women but just want pussy and probably jerk each other off at —”

“I know what you’re talking about.”

“Gallery openings. Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve been reading this thing by this author who frequents Dimes Square. I’ll add it to the recommendations I give you.”

I wanted to say yes sir, but stopped myself. Good boy wasn’t a fan favorite the night before. 

“Yes. Of course.” 

Neither was sex. 

The next morning he sent me those book recommendations. 

He had a real job to get to. I was pretending I had a real job to get to. 

I opened up Amazon. Then my bank account. 

Then Amazon again.

I stayed for a moment, looking at my cart's total. 

I closed the app. 

As a working artist, I couldn’t ethically support billionaires. 

Or myself for that matter it seemed. 

I figured I’d just do the indie writerly thing.

Pretend that knowing my way around the book sections at Strand counted as a personality. 

I thought about the whole fuckboy thing again.

The whole me conveniently leaving out of our conversation that I was sort of always actively frequenting that scene.

Fucking it. 

Watching as my lover wanted people who were never me, inside of it. 

Realizing that I’d only ever been inside of it when someone else was inside of me. 

The following week, the Bowery old man and I had opted to spend another weekend together.

He took me to a nice dinner and made sure to tell me it was. 

“We did the West Village this weekend, we should do downtown next. People watch.” I said.

Nice girl. Check. 

Nice dinner. Check. 

Nice kiss. Check. 

Check. Check. Check. 

Neither of us actually thought this was going anywhere.

“Downtown works. Lunch?”

Two years ago, wearing my ex’s Harley-Davidson leather jacket, our relationship equivalent to an oversized hoodie, I met him at one of his after-parties. On a corner of this proclaimed “new and improved” subsection of Chinatown. 

By the corner of East Broadway, where I used to get family therapy growing up. 

Where I told my mother I hated her after a session when I was twelve. 

By the park library across the street, where I checked out a West Side Story DVD that same day.

Back when I actually used to read. 

Panhandlers, the smell of pot, and pork dumplings.

Not much had changed. 

I walked inside of a dimly lit restaurant. 

Made my way to the basement lounge and stayed close to the timed open bar. Coming out of my watering-hole corner every so often to watch my boyfriend have his moment. 

“This is my girlfriend McKenna –”

I wondered if I’d always be the girlfriend-of. 

“She’s also a model –”

Having to always wear the clothes of my lover at these sorts of things. 

The smell of his scent on my body, a gentle reminder that he was mine. 

“Eh, no, I’m not a model actually —”

Pretend I owned him.

His attraction.

His attention. 

“Babe, you also model.”

His success. 

His love. 

I overheard someone saying that the open bar was on its last fifteen minutes. 

“Well, I did before, in the past, sure, for fun. But I’m a writer and an actor, sort of.”

That night I was a model. 

In our bed, an actor, sort of. 

The next morning, maybe just his girlfriend. 

The night after that, maybe I’d put on a white shirt, borrow his leather loafers, and assume my truest form as just another douche artist wannabe. 

I never made it back to my watering-hole corner in time for last call.

“Yes we should do lunch somewhere good but ridiculously downtown,”  I said. 

The Bowery old man and I put our heads together to decide where to go. 

“Le Dive?”

Meant something. 

I could go back and swap spit with a lover over steak frites and pretentious art talks. 

“Yeah, Le Dive.”

Meant nothing.

I could order the tuna Niçoise salad.

During the week he canceled.