Back in her apartment that evening, Veronica doesn't want to email Tommy Peccalino—it's embarrassing and not the way she thinks things should be done. She's okay with admitting that to herself, alone and with a half bottle of cheap pinot noir.
Sitting at her table in her nightgown, she refills her wine glass and turns on "Wonderland in Central Park." She closes her eyes and sings along, replaying the past night's dream in her mind. Frankie Checkers moves in for the kiss...
The song ends. She opens her eyes and declares aloud to herself like a judge imposing sentence: "Facts are facts. You will never be Frankie Checkers's girlfriend from 1962. You will never be Della Marie. You are wasting your life." She bangs the wine bottle on the table like a gavel, hoping it'll all sink in.
She yanks her laptop toward her, knocking over the mostly empty wine glass and splashing the business card with little red dots of pinot noir. After restarting "Wonderland in Central Park," she begins her internet search for "Thomas Peccalino." An image search yields two hits: one, a red-eyed, convicted sex offender from Arkansas, and two, a cartoonish avatar of a smiling face with dimples and a big scribbled mess of hair—the profile picture for "Tom Peccalino, Web Designer," on a locked professional networking site accessible only to those with paid accounts.
Veronica sighs and rests her face in her hands. She closes her eyes. Francisco would give the wedding toast; he'd describe how he first saw her on the street, how he knew right away that she was the one—for his son. "I said, 'Here is a classic, old-world beauty.' Folks, they don't make 'em like Ronnie anymore..." which would sound better than "She almost stepped in a pile of shit. She had a nose from the Old Country..."
She snorts through a laugh, pours the last of the wine, and writes a short, friendly email to Tom Peccalino, addressing him as "Thomas" as it's written on the business card. She ends the message with an exclamation point and a smiley face emoji.
***
Over the next couple of days, they exchange a few short emails, which are, for the most part, logistical. He signs his first one "Tom," so that's what she proceeds to call him. Tom doesn't use punctuation, so Veronica decides to ditch the exclamation points and emojis, opting for the more classic use of periods and commas. Tom sounds busy ("Lots of freelance stuff," he says), but he's up for meeting if she is. He's also not without a sense of humor, like when he writes "I'm surprised my old man didn't ask you out himself!"
He suggests they meet at his favorite sushi place in the West Village. After working through some conflicts in their respective schedules, they agree to meet next Thursday. Before then, Veronica visits the off-price department store ten blocks down and buys a new turquoise dress, strappy sandals, three bangle bracelets, and a straw clutch purse, all for approximately thirty-six dollars.
***
It's late on Thursday afternoon. Veronica sits on a crowded subway car playing games with her new bangle bracelets (If I get them off this wrist and onto this one before the doors close, it will be love at first sight...We'll be engaged this time next year...).
Veronica knows, by the sweaty grimaces of some of the commuters, that the train car is warm, yet her bare arms are covered in goosebumps. She tries to take a deep breath but only manages a hurried, shallow one. She takes out her compact and reapplies her lipstick, pinches her cheeks, and flips up her eyelashes. (She'll do this three more times on her trip down from 103rd Street to Christopher Street-Sheridan Square).
When she's tired of looking at herself, she looks at others: the very tall, skinny young woman holding onto the nearest pole who's wearing a green dress that looks like it's made of thousands of bits of shredded paper...Her impassively focused eyes are the same color as the dress and her long, shiny hair reaches down past her waist.
YOU ARE READING
Just Another New York Story
Short StoryAn aspiring actress gets caught up in a whirlwind romance with New York nostalgia.