At the margins of that world, twinkle and twirl, fuck and remember. Every juicy tidbit of experience is regurgitated down the celebrity food chain. She dated an Oscar winner for six months that year, while my zenith was an affair with a married Tony nominee. These were our only kisses, kisses offered for the provocation of drunken soap actors and hedge-funders, as she pointed out the ones she’d slept with, done coke with. At Columbus, the star-strewn Upper West Side hotspot, Casey monitored the crowd and if we weren't getting the attention she thought we deserved, she’d lean in and press her lips, glossy nude, against mine, matte red.
We started seeing getting together almost every weekend. Maybe it was all an act, a consuming bid to be remembered, but I thought she was genuinely interested in most people, a quality I don't share. She would focus her eyes, her vivacity, on each person with an almost frightening singleness of purpose, her hand on theirs, and then turn and light up another stranger with the same intensity five minutes later. It seemed she was on a mission to talk to every man and woman in the place. Upstairs at the bar, she chased Amstel Light with Wild Turkey 151 and belched extravagantly without apology, a Barbie that burped. “I love my tits,” she said to me and her reflection as she sprayed a musky perfume across her neck and chest, catching me in her scent. She was slender enough for both coasts, with smallish breasts which she admired with a perfect security I envied.
#City girl life houses the loft skin#
Her cream mohair sweater matched the highlights of her soap opera hair - an improbable shade of blended blondes - and the light tan of her skin accented the unnatural whiteness of her big teeth. She was still wearing the crown from her role as a deposed princess in the play and she adjusted it in the mirror as I imagined Cleopatra would wear it, the jewels of rose and aquamarine glittering low on her forehead between her gray-green eyes. She pushed open the door of the stall and stood over me, talking, as I sat on the toilet, and then leaned over, her hair tickling my face, and flushed for me. When I got up to go to the bathroom, Casey insisted on coming with me, warm as high school. The first time we went out was to a bar in Chelsea with a group after a play workshop. Casey had been diagnosed with bipolar I disorder, what we used to call “manic-depressive.” She liked the play I was writing, said she identified with the protagonist, a gospel singer who swears she’s missing a breast, although she clearly has two. Casey had scored small roles in a couple of features and did extra work and modeling in product shows. I was living in Hell’s Kitchen after college, temping as a proofreader, and she’d come from Philly to be an actress, changing her name from Cindy along the way. The first petals were blooming on the ’90s when I met Casey in a playwriting class in New York. With anyone else I knew then, I’d have won hands down.
She usually won the first three, so I’d claim the last one by default. WHEN CASEY AND I got together, we’d get drunk and tally up our points, in this order:
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