I Know What I'm Doing by Jen Kirkman

know that I was having a secret conversation with myself in my head wherein I was bullshitting myself. I was looking for any reason to continue talking to someone I was so attracted to—something to justify sitting so close. I remember thinking that Ryder was pretty smart for his age and I should take in some of his savvy in order to better get to know the very demographic that every television show targets. Maybe I would one day write a hit Ryder-inspired TV show and make millions of dollars and send him a brand-new pair of expensive Ray-Bans as a thank-you. Other points in Ryder’s favor: He was facing the proper way at the table. He could hold his glass without dropping it. And when he drank and swallowed he didn’t choke because the liquid went down the wrong tube. I was Dorothy Parker to his Alexander Woollcott. It was a regular Algonquin fucking Round Table.
    The girl who I referred to in my head as Some Chick Named Something-Or-Other Who Was Just Staring At Her Phone came to life, lifted her head, and joined the conversation. Ryder put his arm around her.
    “There she is.”
    “Sorry, baby,” she said. “I was texting with my sister. Ugh. So much drama.”
    My heart dropped. “Baby?” Then again, she was wearing a floppy hat, a faded sundress, and lots of string bracelets. Maybe she was just a friendly nonsexual child groupie. What kind of old lady was I being, assuming that “baby” meant that she was Ryder’s girlfriend? That’s how young people talk! It’s a seventies revival! Everybody is baby, and cat, man. And maybe even cat-man.
    “That’s okay, Daisy. Just let her cool off.”
    Ryder ran his fingers through her hair and gently swept her long bangs out of her face, tucking them behind her multiply pierced ears. That intimate move could mean only one thing. He’s her stylist! Sigh. I know, I know. At that point I had to admit to myself that Daisy was probably his girlfriend. I sat with my boring clunker of a name. “Jen” short for “Jennifer”—the most popular name in 1974. The year I was born. The year that Ryder and Daisy were still orbs in some outlying universe—they weren’t even sperm and egg yet. They did not exist. I wished one of them didn’t exist in this moment.
    My heart slumped. I reminded myself that not only was I married—I was a good sixteen years older than these people. I had already lived my youth. I had my fun. I went to bars when I was underaged too. There was an underground drag queen bar in Boston that just wanted to make a buck before the drag shows started and if you were willing to start drinking at six p.m., they would serve just about anyone. So, yeah, I’ve lived, Daisy! I’ve split a bottle of champagne with my friend Wendy served to us by a man with dazzling French-tipped nails. This was way before RuPaul’s Drag Race was a TV show. So watch it, young lady. I’m the Madonna to your Miley Cyrus. People my age paved the way for you to sit in a bar illegally.
    Ryder leaned over to me. He put his arm around both of his girls. Oh. What was this? Some kind of subtle threesome offer? Is this what the kids were into? It reminded me of the scene in Cabaret where Liza Minnelli is crocked on champagne, smoking a cigarette out of a long holder, dancing for her boyfriend (played by Michael York) and their new friend the baron. Eventually the three of them end up swaying together in a circle to old-timey trumpet music on the phonograph. Their noses touch and it’s clear—everybody who can stay awake is totally going to bone.
    Ryder interrupted the classic film in my head and whispered in my ear, “Jen?”
    Just that murmur—the sound of some other man saying my name in a hushed tone—or let’s face it, any man saying my name—sent my stomach into another free fall and it conked out somewhere in my underwear. I looked at him with searching eyes, just like Liza Minnelli’s Sally Bowles. Every second an adventure. What could be coming next?
    “Yes,