It was a picture perfect Friday afternoon. Out of the movies. My new friend and I strolled the streets of the West Village. We popped in and out of furniture shops looking for the perfect chandelier for my future living room. Vast. White. Luminescent. Glamorous. We looked up and down and around. At beautiful objects, gleaming with history and novelty. I ran my finger along wallpapers, safe and bold. I imagined the future. The future home, a wilderness where we will be silly and civilized, where we will finger paint and host dinner parties. Lost in a sea of gorgeous items someone will someday own, I imagined days ahead.
We didn’t find our chandelier. But we did find a quaint little restaurant. It was the end of the workday, turning to evening and to weekend, and my new friend and I ducked in and took a seat at the white marble bar. The restaurant smelled of grilled ham and cheese. Delicious. We each ordered a glass of good wine—rose for me, red for her—and we talked. About aesthetics and design. About cooking. She told me that she used to be a chef and that she cooks every single night, gathering the perfect ingredients – meats and cheeses and spices – from different places on the way home.
In unison, we each finished our first glass of wine. And we ordered another. And with more wine, came more truth. Forgive me, but I don’t remember how we got there. But we got there. Where is there? Kids. I talked about my girls. I talked about how they are the best things that have ever happened to me, but also the hardest. I talked about how I feel stretched, pulled in many different directions, at the mercy of a sublime and unrelenting chaos. She listened. She nodded. She sipped wine.
And then it was her turn. She shared bits and pieces about her life, her family, her path. She told me about her current boyfriend. She told me about her mother and sister and her late father. She told me about her cat. She told me that she doesn’t want to get married. And I don’t know where I got the gall, but I asked her a question I’m not sure I was supposed to ask.
“But don’t you want kids?”
