And there’s Thomas, wearing a light blue cardigan, walking through that whole mess like it’s a perfectly normal thing to see in this building.
“I still can’t believe they let you wear that to work,” I comment as the Pajama Club boards the elevator.
“What you really can’t believe is that I have the status to get away with it.” Thomas is still several doors down the hallway, but he’s speaking louder than he needs to.
“You don’t need to brag so loud the whole floor can hear.”
“You think I’m bragging?”
“You know what, dear? You need to be more observant.”
“Why would you say that?”
Thomas reaches our open doorway and squares up to me. He immediately starts searching my eyes, trying to figure out how serious I’m being.
“Did you even stop to think why I was leaning halfway out our door when you got off the elevator?”
“I’m observant enough to know you weren’t leaning nearly that far out. And besides, I’m sure it had something to do with that improvisational performance art troupe wandering the hallway.”
“Is that what that was?”
“Just a guess. Are you going to let me in?”
Our routine is all thrown off. I’m supposed to be halfway through my martini right now. Thomas’s own martini is sitting next to mine on the bar.
Usually, I make them at the same time, but it’s well accepted that I need at least half a glass of gin and dry vermouth before having to talk to him in the evening.
This evening, thanks to Pajama Peggy and the Slumber Party Gang, we’re both starting our cocktail hour at the same time.
“And I’m stuck dealing with this lunkhead stone-cold sober.”
“You do realize you said that out loud, Margarita.”
“Oh, don’t act all wounded. You know I can’t get that drunk from half a cocktail.”
“Why, that’s just the perfect thing to say, my love. I feel so much better after that bit of reassurance.”
“Sigh...come on in.”
“You know,” Thomas breaks into one of his professorial rants the moment we start walking towards our drinks, “most people don’t say the word sigh. Most people just sigh. It’s a breathing thing—not a talking thing.”
“First question: Do you think I’m five? Second question: Do you not enjoy my quirkiness?”
“Do you not enjoy mine?”
There’s no confusion as to which drink is Thomas’s when we get to the bar. He eagerly grabs the glass with six olives—I know how my husband likes it.
“Don’t act like you were just playing along, Thomas.” I add a heavy French accent to his name before finally enjoying the first sip of my shaken cocktail.
“Mon cheri, je n'apprécie pas cette fausse déclaration de mon identité.”
Thomas looks so pleased with himself, tipping the rim of the martini glass to his lips.
“Oh, come off it. We both know you grew up in Gramercy Park.”
His smug look fades a little, but that ghost of a smirk is still on his face as he takes his second sip.
By now, I’m supposed to be well into my martini, and I never let myself forget to dim the lights before I spend time with my perpetually sweater-clad spouse in our front room.