Spy Pond

There is a pain that comes with parties. It has nothing to do with age necessarily, it evolves throughout life, it stems from primitive instincts such as desire, competition, mating and strength. It surprises me, in my forties, to see people still playing the mating game at parties. I am not sure if they even recognise it. I’m also not quite sure if people sincerely believe themselves when they say things such as ‘oh, he is married, he is not interested in her.’ I am guessing that those who say such things have never read the great literary works of the past two or three centuries.

            So, the morning after the party, I awake with a headache… a hangover. Getting out of bed, I grab a bottle of coca cola from the fridge, my sunglasses and facemask from the breakfast bar, and slowly make my way down to the swimming pool. At the pool, I laze in the shade of the hot day and dive into the cool water to alleviate the hangover. Sipping the coca cola and slowly feeling life return, I notice that one or two individuals start to arrive at the pool. Lonely, beautiful women… and I wonder if they are alone, like me, living above or below me, in a similar apartment, leading a similar life, and if they are looking at me and wondering if I am alone, like them, and living above or below them, in a similar apartment, leading a similar life.

            Eventually, I muster the strength to have a shower. I walk downstairs like a zombie and take my bicycle from the bike room. I cycle towards Spy Pond and, as the wind blows into my face, I become increasingly alive and happy. I cycle to Arlington and then back along Massachusetts Avenue to Somerville where I stop at Davis Square to get some lunch. I decide to go to a Japanese restaurant and, as the beautiful waitress comes to my table, I am unable to resist ordering a Japanese beer.

            The waitress starts to talk to me about my food and the beer and then asks where I am from, etc. I ask her what her favourite meal is in the restaurant and she laughs and says that she can’t decide. Her accent is so American that it catches me somewhat by surprise. After a while, the owner, someone who has become a friend, appears and seems slightly displeased by the casual conversation that has ensued. The waitress becomes withdrawn and so I pay, leave a large tip, and cycle home to spend the rest of the day lazing at the pool and wondering what the future may bring.