There is a saying, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but in my case, absence made the heart go wander. It was St. Patty’s Day. I was 25 and temporarily living with my folks in their suburban Philly home. I had planned a trip to see Mike, my boyfriend of two years and my first true love who had recently moved to Manhattan to finish his degree at Bard. I was both excited and nervous to see him: It had been two months since his move, and although we talked on the phone for hours and he came to visit, neither of us discussed what this move meant.
My mother drove me to the Princeton train station, and once boarded, I shared a car with a bunch of Irish revelers from Philly. Beers in hand, voices loud and hearty, they bellowed about the parties they were headed toward— and their merriment was contagious. An Irish- American myself, I was anxious to partake in their green pride. I’d looked forward to a perfectly shaped clover sculpted into the head of a pint of Guinness and losing my inhibitions at Flannery’s. Mike, being of English decent, would claim to have 15 percent green blood in him—it didn’t hurt that he knew the words to all of the traditional songs.
The apartment wasn’t full of roommates: It was just Mike, a mutual friend of ours, and two British girls—or were they Australian? I felt I had walked in on their double date. Both the girls were drunk and surly, demanding more drinks to continue their St. Patty’s buzz. Mike happily fulfilled them. As he scurried around the apartment, I noticed that the worn-in clothes he normally wore had been replaced with a casually un-tucked button-down shirt and Adidas flip-flops. He looked a lot like he did on the first day we met, before he settled into being comfortable with me. I focused on the TV so I could grasp the picture that was laid out before me. Basketball was on. I knew how fanatical Mike was about March Madness and how changing the channel would cause him to go completely apeshit.
It was then that one of the girls whined, “Can I change the channel, basketball is so bor-ing.” I looked to Mike and waited for the freak out, but instead he enthusiastically responded, “Of course, whatever you want,” and went to the kitchen replenishing their gin and tonics.
After a few more minutes of nobody acknowledging my presence, one of the girls draped herself over my boyfriend and asked, “So, who’s the ice princess?” “This,” he said, excluding my title of girlfriend, “is Bridget.” I asked Mike where he found such a quality gem. He lowered his voice, asked me not to make a scene and answered.
“We met at Flannery’s tonight after I called to invite you down.” Seething, I grabbed my coat, my eyes filled up rapidly. “Bridget, where are you going?” he yelled.
“I’m leaving.” I awaited the lame lines: What’s wrong? Stay. Instead, he bypassed the bullshit and leaped into, “I’ll walk you there.”
What a fucking gentleman! I threw my coat over myself as I frantically searched for my cigarettes. I fled down the 55 steps of his cold, drafty loft while fishing for my lighter with one hand and freeing a Marlboro Light with the other. I needed to light it before I stepped outside to keep from fainting with grief. The door slammed behind me, and I walked down the street in the freezing cold. Mike was trailing behind trying to catch up before I reached the train at Chambers Street. I was sobbing uncontrollably and shaking. How could he be so cold, so disrespectful to me? Clearly, he didn’t love me anymore.
After two years of commitment, I couldn’t understand how he could bring a barfly back to his place while I was on my way to see him. The person he had become was unrecognizable to me, and quite frankly repulsive. Who was this guy? He finally caught up; I was on my way down the subway steps when he screamed, “Bridget! Wait! Stop!” He grabbed my arm firmly; I turned around looked up at him, my nose red, my eyes swollen. “What,” I asked, waiting for him to explain, to ask me not to go, to say something that made everything better. “Bridge,” he said, using my nickname, “you can’t smoke down there.”
My mother drove me to the Princeton train station, and once boarded, I shared a car with a bunch of Irish revelers from Philly. Beers in hand, voices loud and hearty, they bellowed about the parties they were headed toward— and their merriment was contagious. An Irish- American myself, I was anxious to partake in their green pride. I’d looked forward to a perfectly shaped clover sculpted into the head of a pint of Guinness and losing my inhibitions at Flannery’s. Mike, being of English decent, would claim to have 15 percent green blood in him—it didn’t hurt that he knew the words to all of the traditional songs.
Mike, always a gentleman, met me at Penn Station. He made my heart jump upon seeing him: tall, 6-feet-2, big blue eyes, sandy blond hair now shaved. His frame was thinner since his move two months prior. He took my bag and my hand, and we took the 1 train to Tribeca and the huge loft he shared with friends.When Mike and I were living together in Philadelphia, we used to visit his friends here. Back then, the space seemed so New York, and so did his roommates: actors, film producers and art directors—they were arrogant and wild. Although my cool self would feel inadequate in their presence, they would unfailingly create a memorable night of debauchery.When we arrived, I couldn’t wait to get warm, have a beer and head out into the night. Upon arriving this time, however, I realized that this wasn’t going to be the visit I had imagined.
The apartment wasn’t full of roommates: It was just Mike, a mutual friend of ours, and two British girls—or were they Australian? I felt I had walked in on their double date. Both the girls were drunk and surly, demanding more drinks to continue their St. Patty’s buzz. Mike happily fulfilled them. As he scurried around the apartment, I noticed that the worn-in clothes he normally wore had been replaced with a casually un-tucked button-down shirt and Adidas flip-flops. He looked a lot like he did on the first day we met, before he settled into being comfortable with me. I focused on the TV so I could grasp the picture that was laid out before me. Basketball was on. I knew how fanatical Mike was about March Madness and how changing the channel would cause him to go completely apeshit.
It was then that one of the girls whined, “Can I change the channel, basketball is so bor-ing.” I looked to Mike and waited for the freak out, but instead he enthusiastically responded, “Of course, whatever you want,” and went to the kitchen replenishing their gin and tonics.
After a few more minutes of nobody acknowledging my presence, one of the girls draped herself over my boyfriend and asked, “So, who’s the ice princess?” “This,” he said, excluding my title of girlfriend, “is Bridget.” I asked Mike where he found such a quality gem. He lowered his voice, asked me not to make a scene and answered.
“We met at Flannery’s tonight after I called to invite you down.” Seething, I grabbed my coat, my eyes filled up rapidly. “Bridget, where are you going?” he yelled.
“I’m leaving.” I awaited the lame lines: What’s wrong? Stay. Instead, he bypassed the bullshit and leaped into, “I’ll walk you there.”
What a fucking gentleman! I threw my coat over myself as I frantically searched for my cigarettes. I fled down the 55 steps of his cold, drafty loft while fishing for my lighter with one hand and freeing a Marlboro Light with the other. I needed to light it before I stepped outside to keep from fainting with grief. The door slammed behind me, and I walked down the street in the freezing cold. Mike was trailing behind trying to catch up before I reached the train at Chambers Street. I was sobbing uncontrollably and shaking. How could he be so cold, so disrespectful to me? Clearly, he didn’t love me anymore.
After two years of commitment, I couldn’t understand how he could bring a barfly back to his place while I was on my way to see him. The person he had become was unrecognizable to me, and quite frankly repulsive. Who was this guy? He finally caught up; I was on my way down the subway steps when he screamed, “Bridget! Wait! Stop!” He grabbed my arm firmly; I turned around looked up at him, my nose red, my eyes swollen. “What,” I asked, waiting for him to explain, to ask me not to go, to say something that made everything better. “Bridge,” he said, using my nickname, “you can’t smoke down there.”
Bridget O’Neill is currently working on a memoir.You can visit her at bridgetoneill.blogspot.com.
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