They say there are two dimensions to the first impression, and it happens the moment your eyes land on your subject. Then, the only question you should ask yourself is: is this person out to help me or harm me?
When I first met Simon, somehow I knew it would be both. Our lives collided on an ordinary night … but then again, was anything ordinary when it came to Simon Rowe? Could you say that about someone who would change your life forever? I don’t know; it’s hard to tell.
The Little Orange House was the latest trendy bar in the Meatpacking District, a hot spot for the arts and fashion crowd. With an unfinished degree in computer science, I was still trying to figure out where I fit into the fold.
The bar itself was chic, a mix of Spanish and industrial revival. To my left, there was a concrete wall lit up by candles, each in their individual compartments. All the way in the back, past the iron gates, was where I sat alone on a rust-colored leather couch, away from the crowd and the rhythmic music that played on the speakers. Rather, I assumed it was music, because everything sounded like ruckus. I rarely liked to come out to these places; the commotion and the background noise would annoy the average person, but it could be very stressful for someone hard of hearing, like me.
I had been waiting here for an hour, and it was clear that Jason wasn’t coming. But hey, I wanted to make it official. Besides, the martinis weren’t half-bad.
Jason?
How can I explain my relationship with Jason? I guess you could say it was in eternal purgatory—it fell anywhere between hooking up and something of a real relationship. A girl can get lonely in a big city with no other prospects in sight. You take what you can get. Besides, I didn’t have time for a real relationship.
That’s a lie; time was what I had in spades. I was a broke model, working part-time at an Italian deli on the Upper East Side. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to work anywhere while under contract with the NY Model Agency. They literally had me on standby, waiting for the next job, but I hadn’t heard a peep from my agent in over three weeks, and my debts were on the rise. With what I got from my dad and what Johnny paid me under the table, I managed to survive. Working at the deli wasn’t my dream job, but the owners treated me well, especially the little one they called Nonna. She heckled me every time I got in her line of sight. “Eata, eata … you too skinny. Don’ta worry, you make the model anyway.”
I was damn fond of them, but holy cow, what was with these people and their obsession with food?
I only wished my agent Dania had the same philosophy. The last time we had spoken, she’d said, “Darling, you need to lose three more inches, okay? Around your waist and thighs.” The sound of paper crackling came through the phone—what I assumed was my contract compressing into a nice little ball—and I swallowed. “That’s if you want to work. If you don’t, it’s not going to happen, not here in New York City or anywhere else.”
She was oblivious to the fact that I was two layers deep in my lasagna.
“I’m sorry, Mable, but it’s not working out … I have to let you out of your contract.” She’d sighed. “I wish you luck.”
It was business; if she didn’t make money, then I couldn’t pay my bills, and, unfortunately, I was the product she was selling. We weren’t having any success with each other.
But the worst of it hadn’t come from Dania—it had come from the designers themselves, who had related their concern that I wouldn’t be the best match to represent their label, since I was hard of hearing. It caused me to talk funny.
I asked myself, constantly, why the hell I put myself through this. It was straightforward: the dream was bigger than me. It was like an entity of its own, making me believe that, if I held on a little longer, if I could prove to them that my disability was an asset, I could represent girls who were different. I thought things would happen, just maybe.
So tonight, I had hoped Jason would be able to console me, like I had many times for him. I should have known better. When a guy said, “I’m not looking for a serious relationship,” it most likely translated to, “I have no intentions of having one with you—like, ever.” But my mind was a tricky little gal, the kind to concoct a better truth, one that suited me better. I had failed miserably at conforming him to boyfriend material, but I couldn’t blame the guy. He had laid it out for me, but did I deserve better? Sure, I did. But I had allowed this shit-show to run its course for several months because I believed it was better than being alone. With every passing minute living in this metropolis, my views on dating had reformed into something more cynical. After a while, you realize that everyone around you complains about dating in New York.
As soon as I finished my glass, I ordered another one. I thought, I surely deserve it. I had a plan. Tomorrow I would call my dad and tell him he was right, that this whole modeling thing was a waste of time. In a few weeks, I would return home to Montreal and continue my studies, like we’d agreed. But on the bright side, at least, after a year of putting my body through hell, I had been fortunate not to develop an eating disorder like some of my colleagues.
Within minutes, the waitress brought me an apple martini, and I reached over for my purse beside me. I swept my hand on the soft leather … nothing. A surge of anger came over me.
“My purse was here just a minute ago, and now it’s gone,” I said, looking up at the twenty-something waitress, who looked like she couldn’t be bothered. She repeated something, but I had no clue what Miss Muffet was saying. The music was blaring in the background, drowning the sound of her voice. All I could see was her bright pink lips flapping in the dark, but they were moving way too fast for me to catch anything. It’s a misconception that a deaf or hard-of-hearing person can read lips—that we have developed a sixth sense to compensate for our disability. If that were true—I was still waiting for mine to kick in.
“Can you ask the bartender if anyone found a purple boho bag … with a gold clip?” I was yelling at this point—I couldn’t hear my own voice. She stood there, showing me my bill, and those damn lips still flapped.
“Yes, I would like to pay for my drinks, but someone took my purse …” This is crazy. “I can’t understand—I’m hard of hearing … can you please write it on your phone?” I saw her smartphone peeking from the pocket of her black apron. Talk, talk, talk … Her mouth kept going, and I was getting annoyed with her expressions. I was raised in the hearing world and had never deprived myself of anything any other twenty-one-year-old like me was doing. Never allowed my disability to impede anything.
Good grief, talk about an off night.
“Okay, just give me a second.” Obviously I wasn’t getting anywhere, and instead I focused on finding my bag. It was possible it could have fallen on the ground or gotten kicked under the couch. I got on all fours to look around, and that’s when I stumbled across a pair of navy oxford shoes. I forced my eyes up the length of the muscular legs attached to them. Then a set of hands appeared, guiding me up, and I straightened my body.
When I did, my eyes met the most expressive, soft, ultramarine eyes I had ever seen. And I found myself speechless. I would have expected no one to come to my rescue, but there he was, with a laid-back vibe in his style. He’d come with a gorgeous smile and light tousled shoulder-length hair. Without a doubt, I knew I was in for some trouble.
“Are you all right?”
“Someone took my purse,” I replied. I looked past him and realized Miss Muffet had disappeared.
“No worries. I took care of it.” As he spoke, I looked at his face.
“Do you want to talk outside?” I pointed to my ear underneath my hair. He nodded, but I was aware he didn’t grasp my situation. It was pointless to explain, but he would soon find out.