A Bar on Broome Street

September 2000- June 2004

I went to school at Scarsdale High School in New York. During my 4 years of high school, by far my favorite class was Mrs. Hart’s creative writing class. Once you entered her classroom, on your right there was a dirty chalkboard and the rest of the room was covered in posters of different novels she liked, The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre, The Da Vinci Code and many others I don’t remember anymore. But while most people would say their favorite class in high school was because the class was interesting, the teacher was good or whatever it may be, mine was for a completely different reason. Oliver Hughes was in my class. Who is Oliver Hughes you may be asking? Oliver was my high school crush, a boy that I spent the better part of my teenage years dreaming about. He was tall and relatively skinny, he had brown hair and these bright green eyes that made my heart skip a beat every time I looked into them. He spent a lot of his time reading and writing (I always wondered what he was writing about) and he had a very small but tight knit group of friends. I never saw him at parties and once in a while I’d see him at Pepper’s diner writing and drinking tea. I really didn’t know much about him. He sat right in front of me in Mrs. Harts class and when I was 16 I could spend all day staring at the back of his head. I would get butterflies knowing I had creative writing that day, just thinking of the possibility that he might turn around and ask me for a pencil. We talked a few times during High School, he asked me for notes a few times and he helped me with an assignment once. He was my ultimate high school crush, and sometimes I wonder what could have been if I asked him out. 

October 2018

They call it the city that never sleeps for a reason. It took me awhile to adjust to the fast paced lifestyle of the big city but it’s home now. I’m a Features Editor at the New Yorker and I live in a beautiful apartment in Tribeca, close to work so I get to walk there everyday which is great. I have many friends from the office and from university (I ended up going to Yale and got to be the editor of the Yale Daily News, graduated top of my class). And so far I think I’ve done pretty well for myself. 

On Friday nights I like going to a new bar with my friends, but this Friday I felt like going on my own, maybe going over a few of my staff's pieces. I walked around the East Side of Manhattan until I noticed a small place on Broome Street that I’ve passed by a few times. It looked empty so I decided that was probably fitting for the mood I was in. I walked in and about 6 people were there, including the barman. The bar was small and jazz music was playing on speakers that looked about 15 years old.

I went up to the bar where another man sat, in a fancy suit and his tie undone, he was drinking a martini and writing something in a small black leather bound notebook. I sat two seats down from him and ordered a red wine. As I ordered he looked at me and our eyes met for just a second before he moved them away. I felt a feeling I haven’t felt since high school, butterflies that made me sick to my stomach. I could recognize those piercing green eyes anywhere, it was Oliver Hughes. My heart dropped, I didn't think I would ever see him again and I definitely didn't know how to react. Should I say hi? I haven’t seen him since graduation when I came and gave him an impromptu awkward side hug, I have never been more embarrassed by a simple hug and I spent days hating myself for it. That was the last time I saw him, until now. I knew I needed to be cool about this.

Instead, I blurted out what sounded in my head like a scream “Oliver Hughes?” He looked up at me and I got a reaction which completely blindsided. A confused look on his beautiful face. His brown eyebrows furrowed. I froze. I felt 16 again in that poster clad writing class. After what felt like an eternity he opened his mouth and asked me, perplexed, “Do I know you?”

I felt like someone stuck a knife in my heart and twisted it. Maybe I look so different to the point he didn’t recognize me? That can’t be it. I look exactly the same just 14 years older. 

“Uhh, Daisy Hudson! We went to Scarsdale High together, class of 2004” I replied, I think I sounded a bit offended.

“I’m sorry, it’s been so many years I don’t remember much from then.” 

That hurt. The boy I spent so many years fantasizing about didn't even remember me. 

“How have you been? What have you been up to all these years?” I asked.

“I’ve been good. I’m an author now and recently published my second novel,” clearly ignoring the offence in my voice.

“Wow! How’s that going for you?”

“Actually really well! I had a column written about me on the New York Times about up and coming authors which was quite the experience. How have you been?” 

I noticed he doesn’t share much. We talked about our work, life, friends, family, love lives until the bar closed at 4am and he walked me home, we lived on the same block for the last 5 years.

He asked me for my phone number once we got to my building. 

After spending the whole day waiting for my phone to ring, at 6:34 pm, it finally did.