#then post graduation you get this??? Maybe some sort of grad party hook up?

[berezina]

THE FOLLOWING DAY, SATURDAY, JANUARY 12th, I also didn't tweet, and my iCal reminds me why. I had an invite to a glammish Manhattan party. Cocktails at 7pm before guests moved on to dinner. That's the kind of true but implausible detail you cut from a novel.

Not that I'd been invited, exactly. I'd scored a plus-one from the college friend I've called 'Sarah.' For those new around here, Sarah is a type-A daylight creature of the tech-finance woods. Which isn't my main problem with her, though it makes small-talking around our periodic hostilities hard. She's short, blonde, and works out enough to be fit without becoming slender, a frustration she'll only reference in passing because direct conversation about it would make her feel like the wrong sort of woman. She lives on the Williamsburg waterfront in one of those glassy towers that are easy to despise until you're inside a high-floor apartment. The East River Ferry cuts its engine and glides into the dock below… a glass-muted helicopter beats by at eye-level between you and the Midtown skyline. In her apartment I question my life choices, decide it's too late, then think, Is it, though?

It was true that not having Sarah in my life was unthinkable, and also that we were overdue for a breakup. Our friendship endured because a break would be awkward for the mutual friends we both actually liked. She'd done the same math, I was sure. For girls we're both good at math.

The other thing keeping us together I doubt she noticed: her epic drive to avenge her sub-Alice status in college by proving that I was sub-Sarah, now. Which I was on her scale, and sometimes on mine. When I remember that I'm a vocational wreck I want to be Sarah and can imagine doing her job. At a party of strangers, never mind: no Sarah. The plus-one was another demonstration.

So I couldn't tweet that day, obviously. Too busy in the long mirror negging my mild Sarah-friendly dress and shoes and hair, working up the courage to piss Sarah off by putting on a slut show. I did this while preparing answers for Sarah's colleagues, who think it's only polite to ask someone like me, 'What do you do?'

'FBI.'

'FBI in training.'

'Influencer.'

'Like…nothing? I'm just rich.'

*Russian accent* 'I am model.'

(I did the Russian with Sarah in earshot once and she bombed in with 'Alice is an amazing writer,' which flattered me until I realized she just didn't want anyone to think she had a dunce loser friend.)

I remember thinking—maybe it was that day or the next, on the other side of the party—that the root trouble with us is we'd each scripted ourselves into a different buddy comedy. Mine was absurdist in not-good way: two women, neither of whom understand a word the other says, pretending they do so the other won't think she's off the up and up.

Sarah's, like most buddy comedies, had a moral. I'm the amusing flighty spontaneous looks-obsessed one, whose job is to teach my sober hard-working friend to take it easy, bae, have a drink, worry not about her boss's true opinion…because other minds or truth at all are never knowable. (In her movie I'm a philosopher, too.)

In return, Sarah schools me in the happiness that comes from hard work and adult restraint.

Of Sarah's four examples of my looks obsession, three were hookups, not boyfriends, but fine, there was truth to it. The untruthful part, which she must have recognized, was her pretense that our hook-up styles reflect deliberate choices only, not in any way different (however temporary) meat-market values. Sarah, as she'll tell you, is 'buttony' cute. But that's a risky play when you're five-foot-one with a firm thickness everywhere that, sorry, you do kind of deserve for listening to doctors and your Westchester mom, and exercising an hour each day like she does, while ignoring my advice to stop eating like her.

The party was not my worst. As a reward for dressing with cowardly 'taste,' I harvested a bushel of corporate male regard, including the older-male regard I sometimes crave because Daddy blah blah. Wise Sarah would have told me the good news: the harvest meant I could be choosy. I could go on a proper date with the most promising one. But I don't know: the dialectic of desire I inherited was busted, waiting for a spare part that never arrived. When most men at a party or on a scene don't pay court I become indignant and drive off the noble exceptions. Where I'm popular I become less choosy, likelier to run off somewhere to disinhibit with the room's most persistent Regarder. Sarah loves to replay the times my unchoosiness persisted even after the Regarder had showed his hand as a player, mild psycho, or (not defending it) married.

That night Sarah kept me under surveillance. If I wasn't willing to start with a proper date, I would need to submit any potential hookup to the Sarah Test: is this a dude I could remotely imagine dating sometime in the near future, when we were done with our sad business? The answers in this case were nooooooo. Also, the leading contestants were friends, which is gross, somehow. I was pretty sure I said no.

The next morning I woke hungover, confused by a strange bed, and thought, Uh oh. But it was too comfortable to be a man's. I found Sarah in her apartment's kitchen district, in sports spandex. She'd finished in her building's gym, or the micro gym she belonged to as well because it had the better whatever and her employer paid half. One of her little hands dawdled on the island's marble top, enjoying some downtime, while she thumb-scrolled her phone with the other. She made a gesture of 'finishing up' before the needling arrived.

'She wakes! She rises!'

Something like that. I'm not going to pretend I remember exact words in this scene. The point is that my habit of sleeping late fit with my caricature from her movie.

'I smell Venture Capital coffee,' I said.

She poured me a mug's worth, and it was fucken amazing until she ruined it with, 'Did we like the bed?'

'Your sheets are intense.'

'Pillow-wise?'

'I'm not just saying this. You run like the best boutique hotel.' Which was true.

'I'm putting the customer first,' she said.

'It's true.'

It was Sarah's turn to rejoin but she put on a transitional smile instead. 'Remember when you said that to me?'

Yeah, yeah. As I explained at the time, which was college, I was being self-deprecating, not condescending to her business aspirations. 'I could never be good at business' was set up. 'To me, the customer's always wrong.' Pow!

Her memory had done light renovations, updating the quip from a play on the classically servile 'customer's always right' to the equally servile but more Obama-era proactive, 'putting the customer first.' When I pointed out her mistake she said, 'I can't believe you remember that.'

Classic: suggesting I was obsessed with an ancient incident I never would have recalled if she hadn't two seconds ago brought it up.

A cease-fire held as we walked our coffees over to her living room district. We shared the instinct to grab winter sun from her wall of noise-cancelling glass. Even in communion, I thought, we were so different. Her she was caffeinated and high on exercise, her spandex with the sour damp smell of achievement. She took the sun, checking it off her daily list of things to do in January, for Vitamin D. I was dry-mouthed and skullachey in undies and a v-neck, scrounging sun for the same reason I overflirt. I need handfuls of anti-depressant.

We weren't done.

Sarah reminded me that (in college) I'd been defensive at first, accusing her of paranoia before retreating to like, 'I totally get how you'd hear it as condescending, but honestly…'

My college apology had expired. Was I aware that my old tone of condescension persisted? Toward her and, yes, others? She brought a lightly embellished example from the party I couldn't believe she'd overheard. It was with one of the Regarders and she was misunderstanding ironic banter. We'd had that conversation before, too. Anything I say in an old-movie-star voice, as a rule, I told her, is not serious. But no one hears anything. I re-apologized.

'I'm not saying be a different person inside,' Sarah said, in her wise-one conclusion-voice. 'It would be too weird if you weren't arrogant. Seriously, you'd be unrecognizable. [laugh laugh laugh] But you're getting too old to like, radiate arrogance.'

'While living in Queens, you mean.'

'I mean anywhere.'

'Arrogance is not a great look for a nobody is what you're saying.'

'No for anyone.'

Yeah, right.

Having lost my will to exist outside Sarah's judgments, I spent the rest of that Sunday with her and her parents. They showed up at her place exactly at noon, which led me to picture them inside their car in a parking garage, killing time listening to WNYC. Her mother, Jill, greeted me with began sincerely warm on its way to suspiciously long. Sniffing for alcohol? Infusing me with 'support.' Jill used to act testy and competitive toward me in sympathy with her daughter but since the post-college status-reversal I was a poor thing having a rough time and what a pity to throw such a promising life away, a fate pretty much sealed and we could stop discussing now that she's age almost-26. Sarah's kindly, invisible father came over with WNYC still in his ears like the perfume of another woman and told us to sit, sit, while his wife took over the kitchen, to poison us with bagels and cake.

'I will need an update,' Jill warned me, as if she had any intention of giving me time to prepare. 'What's the grad school story?'

'I'mmmm still deciding. Pretty sure I'll apply.'

'Great!' She pointed a cake knife at me. 'But do it this time. Really do it. Yeah?'

'That's always the idea, except—'

'Great.'

It was at a rent-the-back-room dinner she'd treated Sarah and ten of her friends to during our college-graduation week, that I'd told Jill my grad school plans. She'd said, 'Don't waste your time in the Ivory Tower. It's much ado about nothing.' Now I was a good fit.

When Jill wasn't looking, I yanked a strip of lox out from between the overfull bagel buttocks, and ate it like a piece of sashimi. I thought about stuffing the toxic bread product into my bag like after I stayed overnight at their Chappaqua place but decided it would be more fun to feed Jill's condescending concern by leaving them my carb refuse right there on the island. This way she could whisper to Sarah when I stepped into the bathroom, 'Is she eating? She doesn't look great,' and Sarah would tell me the next day, 'My mom asked if you were eating and I told her it was none of her business. But just between us, I hope you're eating.'

~Alice from Queens [source]