No Love Attached

chapter eleven : mr. carrie bradshaw

| No Love Attached |
chapter eleven : mr. carrie bradshaw

•••

New York in December was a dream. I suppose some would say the same about London. But to me, in no way did it amount to the Big Apple.

The lights were brighter, buildings taller, people rougher, food was tastier. And if New York did anything in the winter, it was in true New Yorker fashion that it shoved Christmas cheer down your throat.

Since the office was shutting down for almost two weeks for holiday break, Penney and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to go back home. I really needed a dose of family and thin-crust pizza.

I couldn't see Penney caring much for either of those things. But when she found out her boyfriend Damon was hosting his annual holiday party, she bought a first class ticket back faster than you can mouth the word "desperate". They had only been going out for about nine months, so she had never had the pleasure of attending his Gatsby-esque holiday extravaganzas.

Last year, I had gone with my friend Anthony and his boyfriend at the time, Jose. Anthony Bradshaw ran an art gallery in Soho. He was not only my dear friend who prided himself on having the same last name as acclaimed Sex and the City character, Carrie Bradshaw. But also introduced me to Damon Lancaster. And he was at my apartment for me when I got back from the airport.

There he was, cross legged and Gucci-ed out on my white leather couch, flipping through an old September dated issue of Vogue from the stack of magazines on my coffee table. I had given him the key to my place while I was away to my get mail and such. A job too tedious for my assistant, apparently.

The sweet citrus scent of my apartment filled my nostrils bringing me to the ecstasy that was home. My bookshelves have probably collected dust by now, books just aching for someone to touch their spine. And yes, my beloved window bench overlooking the park. It was that special time of day where the sunlight hit it in such a brilliant way. If I didn't know any better, or believed in God, I would say that is what heaven looked like.

"Finally! I thought your flight got in three hours ago. I've missed you." He jumped up and squeezed me like an old Jewish aunt would.

I let him embrace me for longer than usual. It was so nice hearing an accent that didn't sound like I was watching a Harry Potter marathon that seemed to last for months. I made it a point to smile genuinely at any fellow New Yorker on the street today, tipped my cab driver a little more, and I even hugged my doorman.

"You know Laguardia is the opening to Hell." I put my bags down and threw myself on the couch next to Anthony.

"True," he muttered. His eyes peered over his black, circular glasses. "Where's Miss. Penney?"

"Probably on her way to Damon's."

"But Damon doesn't get in until tomorrow morn -- oh, I see. She's doing a little snoop before he gets home." Anthony chuckled at Penney's oh-so charming disposition.

He was a lot older than us, but I didn't exactly know by how much. Anthony had always said "A lady never reveals his age" whenever the topic was brought up. We've been celebrating his fortieth birthday for about seven years now. Youth was an obsession of his. He liked his friends young and his boyfriends younger.