Like a body pillow.

Have you ever grabbed somebody so tight -- held them so close, grasped their back so hard -- wrapping your arms all the way around them and pushing your face into their shoulder screaming -- "hold me" -- "I love you" -- and all the while tightening your grip, feeling your knuckles turn white as if you were trying to fuse your bodies into one as you feel their love, you physically feel their heart filling, and you know they're smiling because they believe you love them and want them a part of you because you are soul-mates but really, your arms are extended around them like they are a stuffed animal -- an object -- and you are simply pressing into them so you can feel, smell, listen to the breath of a real, life human being next to you -- more than next to you -- so perhaps you feel the love they are feeling --

But really, you feel nothing -- your heart is empty -- it sits in your stomach because this person you are hugging so tight cannot lift it, because as much as you fill their heart, they cannot fill yours -- nothing fills yours -- you are numb. and you are alone. more than ever before. as you lay, two bodies intertwined as one, one heart beating and one heart dying.

Three Years Later.

There is particular bar in Manhattan that has a "Name Night" -- each day they choose a name and if it happens to be yours, you drink for free -- awesome. On this particular Friday it happened to be my name so I was super excited.

As the Friday dragged on, it became apparent no one was going to actually go with me. I was cranky but in the area and couldn't pass up free drinks so I went by my lonesome. I kept staring at my phone for that damn green light to blink informing me I had a text. It never lit up. No one was on their way.

The bartender told me, despite my name, I could not get free drinks 'cause part of their gimmick was you needed to bring friends. Did she think I wanted it this way? She was pretty bitchy, too. I didn't argue, but because I felt like it, I lowered her tip. I took out Dorothy Parker's Complete Book of Poems and read and sipped my vodka as the night filled with more people and I heard twenty girls with my name squeal because they were receiving free drinks.

Hello, I've waited here for you... "Everlong" came on the jukebox. ...Come down and waste away with me... ..good song.. ..Slow how you wanted it to be. I'm over my head. Out of her head, she sang... 

I am laying in my freshman dorm room staring at my ceiling, where I pressed bottle caps into the shape of a star. It's 2 a.m. and all my roommates were at a Yonkers bar. There is a boy on the twin bed with me. A blonde, blue-eyed boy. We've been dating for a month but I am not sure if I really like him 'like that' because he is kind of a punk, kind of a nerd and does not drink or party with the same crowd as me. I am bored with the star so turning slightly, I rest my head on the boy's shoulder and my arm flops across his chest; it raises with his breathing which is uneven -- like he's nervous -- and then I heard something beautiful.  

...And I wonder, when I sing along with you... he began singing, softly but on key. It was not showy, more like a whisper. It was beautiful and honest. It was a boy singing to a girl he knew could not sleep. ...If anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again...


Holy shit, I am crying-- at the bar! How long has this been going on for? Did anybody see me? I grab the ledge and clumsily push my chair out. I grab a napkin, cover my drink, and place my book on the seat. There are more people in the bar than before. I stumble to the hallway and realize I don't know where the bathroom is. I end up in another room, frantic someone will see the tears on my face despite how dark it is.

I run into a stall, slam the door and start sobbing. ...Breathe out so I can breath you in, Hold you in... Will anyone love me like he did? At that moment, in my freshman dorm, I knew this boy would be a major part of my life. It was before the sex, before things got complicated. We were only eighteen then.

We dated for three years before I broke up with him. I know I hurt him. It makes sense that my punishment is always wondering if anyone will love me like he did. If anyone will sing, "Everlong," after knowing me for a month and mean it.

I leave the stall with a blotchy face and Rudolph-looking nose. The bar was so dark and busy no one noticed.

Bittersweet, Indeed.

My face was flushed. He asked me what I was thinking about. Isn't that the question people always say not to ask? I couldn't tell him (I could not make eye contact either). He remained seated as I paced. "C'mon, you can tell me anything." I could tell his eyes were searching me for answers. "Can I? Can I, really?" I knew I could.

"You're face is turning red." He was smiling. He was getting off on me struggling. "It's just sometimes... I think things... you know? ...I am not getting all 'Fatal Attraction' on you... it's just sometimes..." My voice was squeaking; each stutter came out higher than the one before. That smile was so damn cute. "What would it be like if your whole marriage thing wasn't in the way? I know this could never happen. But what if, you know? What if there were absolutely no inhibitions between us? What if we went out on a 'real' date doing stuff we always talk about doing but know we never could? ...What would people think of us, as a couple? What would we think of us?" My hands were shaking now, and I was short of breath from talking so fast. "I just wonder... what it would be like if our timing was different."

His expression was curiously gleeful, "You think that?" I sighed. I do. "I know that could never happen." Still smiling, he agreed. We couldn't. But my thoughts were out there. They were so bold and stagnate I felt like I could read them off the air. I held my breath.

"I'm hard." He gave me the other smile. The smile that meant we were alone and could mess around. I retorted, "WHAT!? Really!? Now!?" That was not what I was expecting. Casually, he answers, "Yeah, you're turning me on." Half of me wanted to keep screaming and wondered if he listened to what I stammered yet my other half felt special which  -- considering the scenario -- was ridiculous. I gave a sly smirk. "I am?" Okay, so I was fishing for compliments but then, I cut him off. "I can't do this. I have to go."

I grabbed the doorknob to leave -- "Steph, I think of that, too, sometimes." -- Five seconds went by. My eyes were locked with his, but I did not move my hand from the doorknob. The desire made me ache. I could kiss him or simply wrap my arms around him and savor these moments between us. But I turned the knob, instead.

I walked out and leaned my back against the shut door. I drew a long breath, closed my eyes and bowed my head in shame, knowing something I did not say out loud. I could have fallen in love with you.

"I've always wanted to be a waitress."

One of the intern mutes said this to me a couple days ago. We were talking over a Hoegaarden at a going away one-beer-each lunch celebration for a guy we never met. She confided in me she felt guilty for accepting a beer 'cause she wasn't twenty-one yet. Oh. My. God. I felt old. The sad thing is I am probably older than most of the editors, too. But since when is twenty-five old? And how did they all get jobs before me? It is appearing that only restaurant managers like me.

When the intern exclaimed, "I've always wanted to be a waitress." My initial reaction was, "Really? But you can't be a mute and be a waitress!" (Okay, she is obviously a nice girl and now I know she and some others can talk but it is still fun to refer to them as "the mutes"). Then, I remembered! I always wanted to be a waitress, too! In college, I applied countless time to my favorite restaurants and desperately wanted to work there. I never did. But what if -- if I did, would I have gotten out of it sooner?

Tonsil Time.

Dressed in a fabulous paper gown, I layed in a hospital bed looking at clouds. It was just a small, rectangle patch of designed glass that covered the flattering fluorescent lights, but I stared at it anyway. Was it suppose to comfort or distract me from the surgery I am about to undergo? My mom entered the room and commented on how pretty the cloud patch was. She teaches ten year olds so sometimes she thinks like one. But then, I get it. Tonsils are usually taken out when you are young, NOT when you are twenty-five. While I bleakly looked at the clouds wondering what the hell they were doing there, ten year olds look and are strangely comforted and distracted.

The nurses gave me a calming iv drip and then I do not remember much. I have a vague remembrance of them turning me over to put a shot -- the anesthesia -- in my behind. So I passed out before the anesthesia even came? Go me. I awoke to two nurses fighting over who got to put the oxygen mask on me. I took the nurse’s on my right’s side then closed my eyes. I awoke again to the left nurse telling the other I am twenty-five. I mumbled I was going to write an article about being twenty-five and getting my tonsils out once I recover. They looked confuse but nodded, like when a child is describing their imaginary friend and adults pretend to believe them.

For the following nine days I ate pastina, applesauce, and organic baby food (I cannot describe how disgusted I currently am by any pureed food, but if anyone has an urge, go for Mango Pear). Each day a new part of my throat/head hurt: first and foremost my esophagus, followed by my molars, then my ears rang and my tongue swelled. The roof of my mouth also enlarged and when I swallowed the fruit mush my nose squeaked. I felt like a blow fish with sliced insides. On day eight I threw up continuously and it is deciphered I overdid it on the prescribed Tylenol Codeine. Typical.

After two weeks of my mother’s care and bad television, I was cleared to go back to my apartment, job, and everyday life -- although, still wary of hacking up scabs and bleeding -- lovely. It is odd to look at the back of my mouth and see two black holes where my tonsils once were. And it is more bizarre to think for two weeks I regressed to being a child again because of a surgery typically done to children. Let’s just hope I don’t get strep for the fifth time this year.

I have a friend crush!

But I do not think he wants to be my friend. This makes me sad.

I am an intern now. An eager, overzealous editorial intern for an online magazine. I sit in the corner table with three other interns while the superior, editorial staff are aligned in front of us. They play a lot of 90s pop music and ignore us interns until we need to update spreadsheets or transcribe an interview. That appears as fine to the other interns (whom I call "the mutes") but me being a miserable, bored waitress, 'causes me to chime into the staff's conversations with silly anecdotes or questions. I do not think they appreciate these contributions. They are not used to those-not-being-paid to talking.

My friend crush sits completely across the room, opposite me. After labeling everyone in the office on my first day -- it's called boredom, not judgmental -- I decided he will be my friend. He makes me laugh, in that stupid, outburst guffaw kind of way with his intelligent witticisms and interesting comments. He also drew me in with his shaggy hair and plaid shirts. Since the editors never saw interns reacting to their antics, I am sure everyone believes I am laughing and socializing with myself. Which, in a way, I am.

We had our first intern meeting yesterday. It was there I repeatedly expressed my desire to write articles for the site and volunteered to become the resident sex editor if they need ideas on how they can hire me permanently. If not, I could write about punk rock since their music editor mainly writes about hip hop. Apparently, I have become an expert on that, too.

I cannot help being vocal. I want to stop telling people about home fries and smelling like a steak every time I go out! I want to stop watching others celebrate their life! I will blame my behavior on having a strange reaction to sitting in an office for eight hours. I know if I was already an editor and some intern was acting like me now -- like the girl who always raises her hand and recites every answer -- I'd be annoyed (by me).

But I put my life on pause for three years. Waitressing has broken me and left me craving more. I wish these editors could understand how desperate I was before I entered their building, how being hired was like winning American Idol. It is my chance to show the world (and myself) what I can do.

Herbert.

A Spanish server in his sixties: short, glasses, dark gray hair. Whenever I see him he smiles brightly, bows slightly, and says, "Hellooo S.O.S!" Since a misunderstanding a month ago, he believes my initials are S.O.S. They are S.M.O. but I do not have the heart to correct him (again). He also calls me Mark Twain. 'Cause I am a writer, get it? Apparently, he could not think of a female.

[Sidenote: Coincidentally, he told me Mark Twain is not the author's "real" name and asked if I had a pen name. I told him Steph Bee and he instantly exclaimed, "Ohhhh I thought it would be S.O.S!"]

He is ridiculously generous and odd. If a server needs singers for a customer's birthday, he jumps at the chance, and follows the other singing servers like we are in a parade, clicking a fork and knife together "to create festive background music." Out of the blue, he gave me a mini stapler and told me to name it "Herbito" meaning, "Little Herb." One day he said goodbye by interlocking his pinky with mine and saying, "Have the sweetest night," while the next day, he placed his palm on mine, closed his eyes, and hummed softly, "I am feeling your vibrations. They are good vibrations."

He also loves kids. It does not matter if they are sitting at his table or another server's, he approaches them and shakes their hand. I caught him drawing an elephant on a styrofoam plate and he told me, "It is for the children, I think they will enjoy it!" I now notice he draws an elephant for every child he talks to. And I am not sure what he talks to them about. I have even seen him hold hands with a few as he leads them to the bathroom. The parents seem to appreciate it; however, my coworkers call him a pedophile.

Sometimes, I too, now look at him strange and wonder, "Why does he draw the children elephants? Or shake their hands like they are tiny adults?" Then I catch myself. Why is it so hard for people to believe someone could be so nice? How does a friendly man turn into a creepy man?

And who are we to judge each other anyway? Professional servers do not end up being servers without a story. No one wants this to be their career, and when it is, the person's esteem and hopes disappear. Why make it worse for someone who is in their own struggle? I once witnessed him walking out of the bathroom with his head down and his hand slapping it, repeating, "Stupid Hebert! Stupid Herbert!" Not sure what he did; but it does not matter.

On the back of my check pad I have collected, what I call, Herbert Wisdom. These are my favorites:

"Even if someone is sending you dark and bad energy, smile all the time."

"I save gracious acts."

"Don't let anybody's ego steal your smile."

"He is a lucky one!" (referring to the birthmark in my eye)

I conclude. Herbert is a nice, quirky man.