Little Lust Stories Volume I

I dated a guy a few summers back who lived in a walk up in Gowanus (a neighborhood of Brooklyn, for those not familiar). It was such a romantic spot in only the way New York apartments can be. It had this cement back patio that looked out onto an ivy-covered brick wall. It was large enough to fit two chairs, two cocktails and a mini Weber grill (where we grilled, often).

The other night, on my 33rd day of quarantine, I threw together a hob knob of leftovers: the last carrots from a month old bag, chicken meatballs from the week prior, a handful of rice noodles. As I stood over the stove, watching carrots caramelize, ginger and garlic sizzle and snap in the pan, pungent vinegar and fish sauce seep into the pores of the rice noodles, I was transported back to those dinners. Sharp. Acidic. Herby. Buzzed.

I love to cook but even during this time, I’ve tired of it. My hands are perpetually chapped, my cuticles ragged, no matter how much hand cream I massage into them. The anxiety of going to the grocery and then attempting to properly disinfect everything I bring home outweighs the initial joy of getting out of the house.

But this evening felt different.

Much like the later months of that relationship, where within a single hour, I’d swing from thinking this person was my soulmate to thinking we needed to break up (and now), my emotions vacillate between extremes these days. One moment I find this greater collective pause exhilarating, the next, I’m worrying over whether or not I properly disinfected the lemons I bought for my mom.

A crumbling relationship by no means provides a direct parallel to a pandemic. But the vacillation, the constant “this and” state are familiar. That something can be brutally painful and wildly beautiful at the same time. Terrifying and uncertain but also filled with waves of potential, hope and promise.

I have not thought of those dinners nor recalled them in this way prior to the age of Corona. It was surprising to remember them so vividly, let alone in the quiet of my own home, before a dinner I would eat on my own. But when it hit, I lingered, drumming up visions of the view from the building, the meals we cooked, the weathered shape of the chairs we sat in. For a relationship that didn’t end well and had a pretty tumultuous decline, it was mesmerizing to have a moment from that experience make me feel so utterly good, especially during a time where I’ve felt, well, not so good.

I’m more so in the silver lining camp of the pandemic. Much like the meandering path of my love life, I’ve (mostly) surrendered to the unpredictable nature of it all. I still have bad days, in both respects. Clinging, forcing, attempting to control.

But maybe all I can hope for—lust for— right now, are those moments of wonder and warmth. From a heartfelt, socially distant chat with a grocery store clerk to a bit of joy sourced from the least likely of places. A relationship that didn’t amount to love, didn’t amount to certainty, didn’t amount to commitment, but did amount to a more whole, a more true, a more authentic version of me.