NAOMI

MO(U)RNING

So maybe I’m sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, centered inside the pulse at the heart of the city that doesn’t sleep. So maybe it’s just me here, and some joggers, a few commuters rushing to their , the bums, all of us sharing the view of dawn rising over the Empire State Building and Midtown off in the distance.

But I know the difference. Everyone else is a ghost. I exist here alone, stranded by choice. Deserted.

I’m like Columbus. I discovered this island. It’s mine now. I hereby claim sole custody.

Maybe this island bench used to be the one where Ely and I would hunker down around dawn, after parties, before going home. Once upon a time, this was the bench where he’d place my head in his lap and stroke my hair (or vice versa), where we created our private island for passing the time to let the substances subside before we returned to the nightmare our parents created. In the parallel universe of Naomi & Ely, this might be the spot where, if one half of our equation hadn’t decided to kiss my boyfriend, Ely would be coaxing me into a sunrise nap at this very moment, protectively placing a blanket over my body and snarling at any dude who dared ogle me with preying eyes. (Of course, I’d offer up the same Fuck Off glare to all the gay boys returning home from their late-night clubbing who’d dare offer up a smile Ely’s way. I give great snarl. I’m not entirely without talent.)

(Maybe Ely didn’t snarl at the men ogling me. Maybe I only wanted him to.)

Is this what divorce feels like—complete failure? Dad may have moved out over a year ago, but only now do I understand why, still, the only time Mom wants to get out of bed is when she has to. She’s yet to file the official papers, but the word— divorce—creeps and crawls, taunts, all over the marital bed where she’s taken refuge. Mom knows the other words— adultery, separation—found their way to her bed. Divorce will, too, when it’s ready.

I’ll take bench over bed. Still.

On weekends when we were in high school, while all hell broke loose between our parents, Ely and I would take refuge in his room and play a game of Turn Back the Clock. We imagined the late ’90s, before all hell broke loose in New York City and the rest of the world, to be a good era to reinvent, so we’d pass lazy Sundays on his bed, listening to early Britney, middle Spice Girls, and late Lilith Fair chicks, or watching DVDs of TV shows that used to air on the former teen angst WB network. I loved to nap on his pillows because they smelled like him, like comfort and boy.

Ely and Bruce the Second are probably wrapped in each other in Ely’s bed together right now. It’s only been a few days, but Ely doesn’t waste time when he’s on the hunt—especially if there’s potential to score a convert over to his team. What challenge! What fun! No time for mourning this morning! Not when Ely’s probably at this very moment laughing and kissing with Bruce the Dead to Me, oblivious that their their is like a gun to my head.

The underneath my apartment’s doormat, Ely’s key, has been removed. The monsters under my bed will have to find someone else to scare them away. Ely’s services shall no longer be required. I don’t need my bed anyway. I’ve got a bench to sit on. Catatonic. Take that, monsters. I will never again lie in my bed alone at night, wishing for Ely.

I feel for Mom, but I’m not going to be her, stranded on the isle of denial. I’m not.

I can’t lie. My deserted island isn’t populated entirely by me and ghosts. An archangel lingers nearby.

Here’s what I want to know: He works graveyard hours as a doorman, plays basketball before his shift, and occasionally performs with his band in Alphabet City in the dead of night when his shift ends early . . . so when exactly does Gabriel sleep?

If I was Gabriel and it was seven in the morning and I’d just gotten off work after one of my shifts that did not close out in Alphabet City, I would not be sitting on a park bench, hiding my face under a baseball hat, pretending to be immersed in a book. I would be zzzzzzzzzzzz. I would at least be curled up next to my mom, ready to zzzzzzzzzzzz. Which I plan to be as soon as I can haul ass over to the Starbucks off Waverly Place so I can return home with morning caffeine for her.

First I have to know why Gabriel is playing with me.

I know he knows I’m sitting only a few benches away. I know he’s sitting there because I’m sitting here. I know he must be confused that I showed up at his band’s show and then had nothing to say to him after. Does he know I left the club and stayed over at girl-Robin’s because apparently I hadn’t finished the crying I’d started earlier that night at her dorm? I wanted to stay and hang out with him, but more than that, I wanted to turn back time on the end-of-the-world fight with Ely.

I for sure know Gabriel is not actually reading Message in a Bottle. I do know someone needs to salvage Gabriel out of late-night poker games with Bruce the First.

I should stand up, go over to him, break the ice with him finally. Engage.

Ely and I used to have a No Kiss List^TM.

Gabriel is a free agent now. I not only could kiss him, I could go much, much farther with him. I could make real Ely’s fantasies about Gabriel, in ways that Ely never stood a chance.

As far as I recall, Ely and I never created a No Fuck List?

(Should we have?)

All bets are off now, right?

Mom says men can’t be trusted.

I can’t.

I should.

Gabriel has big ears.

I don’t.

I remain alone on my . I have nothing to .

But so much to brood over on my deserted-island bench. Now that Ely has eradicated himself as my best friend, my soulmate, the truth is I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my time. School is a waste. Maybe I’ll find religion. I’ll probably become a X. They have the best food.

Gabriel must hear my rumbling stomach over on his island. He makes the first move, signaling my island with a text message to my cell phone.

Can I buy u breakfast?

Sometimes giant pieces of ice, like almost the size of cities, detach from glaciers. They float iceberg majesty—or terror, if you’re on the Titanic.

I’m sure to go down for this, but I do it anyway. I text back:

Aren’t u supposed 2 ask me that the night b4, not the morning of?

The man under the baseball hat doesn’t look up. But I see his fingers tap away.

A gentleman shows more respect 2 a lady.

I’m bored. This is pointless. I have nothing left.

If I wasn’t a lady, I might be the Bruce laughing and kissing in bed with Ely this morning.

I don’t answer.

Yet the gorgeous big-eared man under the Mets hat will not back down.

C’mon. Eggs. Bacon. Home fries. My treat.

I really am kind of hungry. I give:

I like cereal. I leave out the “with Ely” part. My fingers hurt too much to key those additional letters.

The archangel wants to know:

What kind?

I lie:

Product 19.

Truthfully, I like Rice Krispies, with Ely across the breakfast table (at his apartment), eating Lucky Charms. We play food-fight war: Snap! Crackle! Pop! vs. pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers. Chaos prevails. Ginny throws a fit over the mess. Susan laughs and tosses Grape-Nuts like confetti.

Gabriel tosses back:

I’m a Müeslix man myself.

I’ll bet Gabriel knows who Fred Astaire’s favorite dance partner was, too.

Seriously? I have to ask.

I see the shape of his fine, fine form laughing from yonder island.

No. Just making sure ur paying attention. I’m all about the Cheerios.

Cheerios are Ely’s backup favorite morning cereal, after we’ve eaten up the Lucky Charms (dry) in the afternoons.

My body aches, my soul grieves. The smile that wants to taunt my lips: DENIED DENIED DENIED. I am not going to be the girl with the heart of stone waiting to be broken down by the quirky-cool guy with the heart of gold. Fuck that fantasy formula.

Persnickety. That’s what Ely would text me now, his favorite word to tease and taunt away my dark moods. Quit it. B Angel Naomi, I no u can.

I want to be touched by an angel.

His name was Ely, not Gabriel.

My heart is

I’d rather have breakfast with Mom.

I text a final message to Gabriel:

I feel sick. Going home.

Ely never wakes up before eight. If I get home soon, we can avoid face time entirely. We’re already not speaking—no worries there.

Still. A custody arrangement needs to be worked out. Who gets to use the elevator, the laundry room, the lobby—when. Separate but equal. Dead to one another.

There will be no this time.