Tuesdays — Page 27

Jan in the apartment, the Sunday morning after the reading (three days after, one day before Tuesday)

#01

The Four Days

The four days between the reading and the Tuesday went the way four days go.

Texted August on Saturday: it was real nice. coffee tuesday? He replied in four minutes. Yes. Milk Bar at 11? Replied 11. Four texts. Six minutes. Put the phone down, made tea, didn't pick it up again for the rest of the morning. Thirty years old. Could, by now, recognize a Saturday text as a thing that didn't require the whole day. The Tuesday was, by 11:14 AM, a date in the planner. Tue—coffee, Milk Bar, 11. Closed the planner. Four texts. The Tuesday is in four days.

Inside Milk Bar (the small Greenpoint coffee shop near the bookstore)

#02

Tuesday One

The first Tuesday was an hour and twenty minutes long.

Assumed coffee would be forty-five. The coffee went cold. Talked about the reading, the chair piece, a poet he'd been reading (Tomasz Różycki — wrote it down when I got home), his sister in LA, my mother in Hangzhou, whether the Saturday boba woman had a name, whether Mim was a small CEO. Told him the small-CEO line was three years old. He said it's still the line. Said it straight. Paid for both coffees. He said I'll get the next one. The next one was a presumption of a Tuesday two.

Two weeks later (the second Tuesday was the same week — they had gone for coffee on the actual Tuesday after, also at Milk Bar, and then again the following Tuesday)

#03

Tuesday Two

The second Tuesday I suggested the park.

Sat on the second bench — not the canon bench, a different one, farther in, beside the playground. He brought two small almond croissants from a bakery near his apartment. Hadn't mentioned them until he produced them. He said I picked these up on the walk over. I said that's nice. The croissants were good. August said the bakery was the second-best in the area, which I would learn — over months — is his exact register for the best in the area. The almond croissants would, by the fourth Tuesday, be a small Tuesday tradition.

Tuesday three — back at Milk Bar, late afternoon (they had moved the coffee to a later slot — 3 PM — because August had a shift)

#04

Tuesday Three: The 8:47

The third Tuesday I told him about the 8:47.

Been carrying it quietly for three Tuesdays. Decided on the walk over: I would tell him. I said: do you know what time you texted me? He said I don't. Showed him the screen. The text said 8:47 PM. I said: I had a thing happen at 8:47, three years ago. Told him the short version: the laptop, the noodles, the sticky note, the not-replying-to-the-boss. He listened without performing. Said, when I was done: that's something. Said: I'm glad I texted at 8:47 then. Didn't say it was a sign. I would've winced. The 8:47, in our small history, had been mentioned.

McGolrick Park, the second bench, later afternoon — early August now (summer thick)

#05

Tuesday Four: Croissants, Canon

The fourth Tuesday I told him almond croissants are now a Tuesday thing. He said I had assumed. Had picked them up without my asking — two croissants, paper bag, still warm, forty-three cents of powdered sugar on the top of each.

By the fourth Tuesday, several small understandings had accumulated: always Milk Bar, never the bookstore proper; the park on warm days; and now the croissants. August asked about the Substack. Told him about Mira. He listened without offering advice. Said that's the right kind of reader to have. Said it in a way that didn't press. The kind of person who lets a sentence stand. I'll keep him around, at least, for the quality of listening.

August inside Jan's apartment, It is mid-evening on the fifth Tuesday (he had, that morning, asked if she wanted to grab dinner instead of coffee, and dinner had become dinner…

#06

Tuesday Five: The Lamp

The fifth Tuesday August came to the apartment.

He walked in and catalogued the whole space in about eight seconds. Said this is exactly what I had imagined. Said: the lamp. Said: the chair. Said: the cat — and Mim walked over and let him pet her once, which she'd never done for a stranger. Once is enough. The soup was Mom's soup, the third-try version. He said I will eat it with appropriate gravity. Had two bowls. After dinner I told him about the lamp. He said the lamp does do the work. Looked at the lamp. The lamp was, that night, doing what the lamp does.

Later the same evening (the fifth Tuesday continued)

#07

Tuesday Five, Late

Told him, on the couch, about my grandmother.

The longer version — hadn't written it on the Substack, only the piece about her hands, which is the piece Mira read. Her apartment in Hangzhou. The bird cage on the balcony. The gray that finally came in 2021. Not having been there at the end. He listened without offering a parallel. After I was done he said: I'm glad you told me. Said it the way a person who has thought about listening says it. The lamp was on. The cat between us. The tea lukewarm. The room held both of us.

Tuesday six — back at Milk Bar, late August, summer winding down

#08

Tuesday Six: The Sister, in LA

The sixth Tuesday August showed me a photo of his sister in Echo Park.

Two kids — Felix, two, and Vera, five, who he calls V. He'd mentioned LA three times. This was the first photo. His sister had been asking him to come out. A bookstore in Silver Lake needed a manager. She'd sent the listing twice. He said I told her no both times — while looking at the photo, not at me. I said do you want to go? He said I wanted to want to go. I don't. Told him Henry said my name right for the first time at Christmas. Jan, not Yan. He said that's a milestone. We sat with that for a minute. Walked home thinking about a bookstore in Silver Lake I have never seen, and a person who knew the difference between wanting something and wanting to want it.

Wednesday morning after the sixth Tuesday

#09

The Sixth Tuesday-After

Wednesday morning after the sixth Tuesday.

The chipped cup. The teapot. His text had come in at 7:48 AM: same time next tuesday? Hadn't yet replied. Would, in two minutes, reply yes. Six weeks. A thing on every one. By week six it was a fact of the week — the apartment, the soup, the lamp, the cat, a photo of a five-year-old in Echo Park, and a person who listened to the longer version of my grandmother's story and said I'm glad you told me. Hadn't, in any prior month, had a Tuesday-fact that involved someone other than myself. The Tuesday was, this Wednesday morning, a Tuesday. A small fact of the week. I will, in two minutes, reply yes.