REMOVED

Full beard and strapping body aside, the bartender is young enough to be my son.

Hendrick's martini, please. Straight up with olives.

Hey. I like your style.

My entire body smiles back.

Thank you.

I want to ask what he sees. Does he know I'm a mom? 

Instead, I gather all of the candles from one end of the bar, vow to get my eyes checked soon, and tuck my head into a book.

The air is warm, the martini is cold, the music is loud. The room smells like chicken and potatoes and the late eighties: like my first years in New York City, all full of bigness and potential and the scariness of it all. 

I need food.

My eyes glide down the menu and get stuck on two of my favorite words: romaine and anchovies. 

I wave to my bartender son.

This salad looks exciting.

That salad is exciting.

Two seats down is a body dripping with tattoos, motorcycle leather, fatigue. He is old enough to be my husband.

He picks up his burger. I pick up my grilled romaine. He dips his fries in ketchup. I scoop up the creamy, smoky, fishy salad dressing with my bread. I moan yum. He sighs. He doesn't look to the right. I don't look to the left. We eat together. I feel safe.

I pay, pick up my martini, and head for the hotel elevator. I don't look back.

I climb up on the coffee table with my martini and watch the flashing lights of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling Brooklyn windows. I start to relive the thirteen years of pining and dreaming and never ever sleeping that I crammed into that little island. What did I do with all of that kid-free time? I didn’t even like anchovies back then.

I step down.

I lower the shades, wash the martini glass, and tuck myself into the soft and clean king-sized bed. No morning light, no buzzing phones, no barfing kids, no nothing will wake me up until I am ready.

You can find the recipe for Grilled Romaine Salad with Corn and Creamy Anchovy Garlic Vinaigrette in my column over at Food52.