The Ring by Donna Slade

Gramercy Tavern has been a New York City staple since the early nineties. With a spacious bar and wonderful food it has set the gold standard for what casual, fine dinning should be. The restaurant is more formal than the bar but the bar food is just as delicious. Although… the pace in the dining room is different, with the kitchen and the patrons performing a type of Kabuki Theater. The waitstaff, with just the right amount of reverence to the kitchen, serves exquisite dishes to a discerning clientele and in return that clientele pairs each course with the absolute best wine, hand selected by the Sommelier on duty. You ask for their opinion out of respect for the food and they never disappoint. And in the end all pay homage to the shrine of Meyer/Anthony. The only problem with the dining room? There is always a second seating and no matter how well you behave, eventually you will need to leave.

But the bar has its own rhythm. I could sit here all afternoon drinking my water, sipping my cosmo and admiring Cornucopia and never be asked to leave. My bartender is attentive and he will let me stay all night, if I want to.

I have snagged the coveted two stools at the front of the bar by the wide window overlooking Twentieth Street and I’m patiently waiting for Sasha. I walked to the restaurant from home which by New York standards is about three miles and I probably should have had an umbrella. New Yorkers measure distance by city blocks (20 north/south blocks equal a mile) and time by whether you can walk to your destination faster than grabbing a cab or Uber. The Subway is usually the fastest alternative, but there are days you just don’t feel like being underground. And today was one of them.

I arrived at the restaurant early despite the light, constant drizzle. In London they would consider it mist, not rain. When I entered, the coatcheck attendant asked if I would like to dry off and offered to fetch a kitchen towel. I assured her I was just fine and would drip-dry at the bar. She was less than enthusiastic about this plan, but took my coat and allowed me to make my soggy way over.

I placed my bag on the stool next to me, saving Sasha’s seat and took off my baseball cap with the words, NO WHINING stitched on the front. Having ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and a cosmo, I have settled in with my ipad and phone. Thank god for tech. It helps create a barrier, an invisible forcefield warning others; Stay Back!  Angry Female!  May Bite!

I no longer feel at the mercy of some lonely suit trying to pickup a drinking buddy. And should anyone try to enter the zone, they receive a withering stare and the back of my hand. Although it dawns on me, I realize how improbable this is now and that my zone is just a figment of my imagination. Who would bother?

So I take a sip of my perfectly delicious cosmo and let out a long sigh of contentment. I know in Manhattan a cosmo is a cliche. The drink of choice for all those single females obsessed with Sex in the City. But I don’t care, it’s the only cocktail that tasted good while I underwent my treatments. And we have a fond relationship. I’ve grown to love a good cosmo. They are tart, never sweet, a happy shade of pink and have shards of ice that fill the glass with danger, at least when shaken properly. I like mine with Titos, after-all it’s the vodka that makes the cocktail sing. I think back to all those therapy sessions where the tears flowed and the anger seemed endless, my reward for sticking it out was a good cosmo – or two.

“There you are. You look wet.”

Never one to mince words, Sasha has arrived. He has been a friend for years. We met when I was Thirty and trying to buy a painting. He was the gallery boy, trying to sell me something else. I finally asked what he was doing, and with his Russian accent he answered, “Don’t get this one. It kind of sucks. The one that will hold its value is the Sam Francis. I know about this, you really don’t.”

He smiled and I laughed at his candor. I told him he wasn’t going to last long at the gallery if he kept selling down. He replied he hated the gallery and it was his last day on the job. He then gave me a quick lesson in modern art and why the Francis was awesome. So I bought it, he discounted the work heavily, wrapped the piece and we walked out of the gallery together.

Our friendship began that afternoon over a bottle of Chardonnay somewhere in Soho. We talked intimately and for hours. Sometimes you connect with another person and it is like finding an old soul who understands you completely. I talked with Sasha about Ethan and coming to NYC. How lonely I felt for the first year but how I loved the City now and never wanted to leave. Sasha talked about coming to America as a teenager with his sister and parents who were jewish and fleeing the turmoil in Belarus. His father had family in Queens and that’s where they stayed for the first year. Ten of them in a two bedroom apartment, four adults and six kids. He said it was awful and vowed to be successful at all costs. He quickly learned English, studied hard and went to Yale on a full-ride where he studied Fine Art. His real passion was painting but he needed to make money, hence the gallery job.

I move my bag from his stool and observe Sasha as he takes off his coat and gloves. He is 6’4”, dressed impeccably and the new stubble gives him an air of confidence. He is a gorgeous man who has maintained an exquisite exterior that shields a kind heart and a strong soul.

“Is that to impress the guys?”

Without looking at me Sasha replies, “Its stubble Grace, it impresses no one. I look like the beer man who is not the most interesting man in the room, just the oldest.” He smirks, “It’s for work. These days we all need to be rugged.”

Sasha currently makes his living as a catalog model, and is very successful. His studio is in the meatpacking district, now considered fashionable and very upscale. Back when Sasha bought his place only the bravest ventured that far downtown.  Now between catalog shoots he paints. Talented and ambitious, a combination I have always been attracted too.  He’s approachable and interested in both men and women. We had our moment years ago but chose to be friends. Not friends with benefits. As the bartender comes towards us with a big smile, Sasha nods and then motions for him to wait a moment.

“Hug please.”

I stand and give Sasha a hug. I start to sit back down when I feel him wrap around my waist, pull me back in and hold me. I don’t want to break, but I do. I go limp as Sasha engulfs me and my resolve melts. Rubbing my back, he does not let me go until I am done my mini sob fest.

“You look like shit.” He whispers in my ear as he kisses my cheek.

“I know.”

The bartender, who has waited patiently for our moment to end now takes Sasha’s order and asks if I’d like a refill. I would, but not right now. I ask for the menu and order a couple of dishes. When we are done with the formalities, Sasha stares at me and with his hand smooths the top of my head.

“What have they done to you?”

“It grows back, I swear.” I start to think too much candor may not be a good thing.

“Grace. I’m not talking about your hair, but about them. They don’t have the right to kick you while you are dying.”

“Jesus Sasha, I’m not dying.”

“Maybe you are a little?” As Sasha says this he leans back and takes me in. The whole

picture is suddenly crystal clear. I am here in my wet jeans, wearing a crappy sweater and tennis shoes. My baseball cap is hanging on the back of the stool, I forgot to put on jewelry and I’m not wearing makeup. Which means I basically have no eyebrows. Absurdly, I think to myself… who wears tennis shoes in Manhattan? Tourists who can’t walk on concrete all day, that’s who. No self-respecting New Yorker wears them to a bar for casual drinks with a friend. We just don’t do that.

I motion to the bartender and order another cosmo.

“I’m tired Sasha. I can’t do this anymore. Fight, I mean. For Ethan, my kids and our life together. I feel so old and useless.” I am expecting sympathy.

“Then stop fighting Grace.” Sasha touches my shoulder as I stare at my empty glass waiting for the refill. He makes me pay attention to what he is saying even though I am not sure I want to hear it.

“Give up. You’ve lost. There is a point when defeat is a relief, when the struggle is over and you have to let go. You are there Grace. You need to find yourself again and stop fighting this battle for everyone else. The kids will be fine, they are amazing human beings and more resilient than you know. Ethan replaced you and he has few regrets, he’s happy while you stay miserable.”

Sasha pauses and takes a sip of his drink. As if he has read my mind he continues, “You aren’t allowing her to win by giving up. She loses. They both do, and someday you will see that. How will they ever have love in their relationship? You can’t build a foundation on lies and deception. We all know that. She spends the rest of her life waiting for Ethan to grow tired and find someone else. He spends the rest of his life looking back and wondering if he made the wrong decision. You need to clean up, grow up and get on with it. Make him regret his choice every day for the rest of his life.”

“Fuck Sasha, that’s not a pep talk.” I look over and vow to make him understand how difficult it has been for me. “You have no idea how painful this is.”

“Ahh, I’m just your friend who doesn’t understand pain or hardship. I never had to work for what I wanted or feel regret for what I couldn’t have. Right, I’m a bastard all because I am honest with you and telling you the truth that no one else will.”

Sasha takes his drink and swirls the ice in his glass then adds, “I’m on your side.”

I twist my wedding ring around my finger. The only piece of jewelry I did remember to wear, as I rarely take it off. It feels like it’s a part of me, a second skin, the adult version of my childhood blanket. The little pink one I carried with me for years until it literally disintegrated in the wash one day. My wedding band marks me as someone who is wanted. Someone who is secure in the knowledge that she is loved, cared for, cherished even. It says to the outside world, I am not divorced. I am not a single woman in her late fifties trying hard to be noticed. I am not that woman. The woman who got rejected. No, not rejected — worse, replaced.

I feel that familiar sting in my eyes and the heat from the tears that begin to fall. Sasha takes a cocktail napkin, unfolds it and wipes my cheek. He then takes my hand and holds it between both of his and I let him. He gently removes my wedding band. I am motionless, unable or perhaps unwilling to stop him. He places the ring on the bar next to my drink.

We say nothing. I look at my finger and see the dent that twenty-five years of wearing that ring has made. I notice the pale blue vein that slides over the top of my knuckle, the dry skin on the back of my hand and the thin line of dirt under my fingernail. My only irrational thought is I need a manicure. I don’t reach for my wedding ring. Instead, I take a deep breath, let it out slowly and look at Sasha.

“Thank you. I couldn’t do that on my own.”

“My pleasure.” Sasha leans forward and kisses my forehead.

As our food starts to arrive I slip the ring into the pocket of my jeans. Just like that I am a fifty-something single woman in a bar with a very attractive man, wearing fucking sneakers and I realize it’s not going to kill me.

After we’ve each had a few bites of deliciousness, Sasha continues, “You may not know it Grace, but you are one of the luckiest people I know.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

 “Well, lately you haven’t been so lucky but in general you have had a remarkable life.”

I watch as Sasha cuts his perfectly seared foie gras, placing a bite size portion on a small piece of toast with a schmear of homemade cherry compote, adding a few flakes of sea salt and pops it in his mouth. He washes it down with a sip of sauterne. He’s entering heaven while I start to regret my choice of beverage.

“I guess I’m lucky. Our kids are wonderful and healthy. I know they will get through this and I have a lot to be grateful for.”

“Like what?”

“What do you mean, like what?”

“Grace, it’s not a trick question. What are you grateful for?” Sasha puts down his current toast point, raises his eyebrows and waits.

“Well, if I have to make a list I’d say the girls are at the top. My friends who have all been amazing are on it, my doctors, my sister, my cousins, the dog and of course you. I’ve had so much support from everyone. I’m really grateful about that.” I smile hoping for affirmation.

Hmm, is all I get in response. When Sasha does this, asks a questions he already has the answer for, its like nails on a chalk board. I want him to tell me, lead me to the answer. I don’t want to figure it out, I’m too tired for games these days so I remain quiet and eat another mouthful of Arctic Char. Which is delicious with my Cosmo, but would be better with a glass of something white or possibly red, but my taste buds are still on strike. Sasha waits patiently.

Without looking at him I say, “OK, what am I missing Sasha?”

“It’s not what, but who.”

“No, no, no! He doesn’t get gratitude. Not today, maybe never.”

“Of course not. He’s a horrible person. Terrible father. Absolutely awful provider and that face, who could love that face?”

I start to smile, “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“I am and you’re welcome.” Sasha swallows his last drop of sauterne and smiles.

I realize he is right. Ethan did his best for a very long time, and then stopped. We both did.

Donna Slade

Image – Two plain gold rings one on top of the other from Pixabay.com