Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 23

Molly decrees that I need food, a walk, and shopping, in that order. I do not dispute.

We brunch. Egg salad improves my mood.

Protein. So important.

We stroll around Washington Square Park. Take in the street musicians, dancers, artists, chess players, the whole milling crowd.

I'm feeling better. We shop. I feel even better. We work the cute and funky boutiques of the Village like pros, all the way to 7th Avenue and back, with a swing through the fringes of SoHo too. I don't buy much. A wide leather belt, navy blue, that goes with a tunic dress I have. Some new tights. A cute bracelet from The Acessorarium, which is my heroin, I admit.

Okay, earrings too. They matched the bracelet. It would be cruel to separate them.

I try not to think too much about the outstanding balance on my credit cards. It's been at least two months since I smacked up against my limit. Anyway, this is medicinal shopping.

Molly finds a candy-colored knit coat that is too darling. Winter is coming, after all. A vintage dark green sheath dress. A new pair of ankle boots. All quite sensible.

Like Molly. Always so sensible.

Molly is the got-it-all-together one in this friendship. She's the yin to my yang. Or is it yang to my yin? I can never keep the yin and the yang straight. While I trip on every crack in the sidewalk, Mols glides. I mean that both literally and figuratively. I do trip more often than a post-toddler should. And Molly doesn't. Life works for her. She is always positive, cheerful, ready for whatever comes her way, any day of the week

Even on Mondays.

I love her. I mean, she's the best. We've been friends since college, which I would not have made it through without her. That's a whole dirty laundry bag full of other stories though.

Our excursion eats most of the afternoon.

"I'm hun-gray," I announce, three blocks from home. "Hun. Gray."

Molly laughs. This is an old joke between us. So old we don't even remember how it started. Something from a history class long ago. Attila the Hungry. The details are as fuzzy as my bunny socks, the ones I sleep in when it's cold. They're part slipper, part sock and have a cute bunny face and floppy ears at about ankle level.

But I'm getting off track again. It's not quite bunny sock weather yet, but soon. Regardless, I don't remember much about history or Attila. Except that he was always hungry. Ha-ha.

"Urban Taco," says Molly.

Perfect answer. Mols always has the perfect answer. Urban is one of those trying-to-be-hip-yet-also-authentic-but-mostly-hip taqueria "concepts" that have popped up everywhere in the city lately. Because tacos are the new cupcakes.

It's on the way. We get a whole bag of the pineapple fish tacos to go. Molly treats, because she's wonderful. I have a miraculously unopened bottle of actually decent red at home – snagged from a catering gig – that goes with fish tacos because red wine goes with everything. I pour. Mols unbags. We arrange ourselves on my tiny couch with our tiny tacos in hand.

We clink our glasses together.

"To the life!" says Mols.

"To the life!" I reply. It's a thing we do.

We drink.

I burst into tears.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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