Thought for Food

When we were helping to set up for Noble Rot’s Bastille Day celebration (photos) we got a parking ticket. It was my fault. I was in charge of feeding the meter and I had trouble finding anyone who’d break my $10 bill. (Can you believe they still use coin meters on the Upper East Side? So backwards. I hate it there and that’s not just the parking ticket talking.)

It was one of those “no, wait, I have the quarters right here!” situations. So frustrating. I assumed the ticket was $100 — but I didn’t check because the meter maid told me if I leave the ticket in the car window I wouldn’t have to pay the meter. (Gee, thanks.)

I was grumpy, of course. And when I told M., he was even grumpier. We got in a mini-tiff which ended in me stomping to the nearest Chase, withdrawing $100, and thrusting it at him dramatically. “I don’t want to hear another fucking thing about it,” I said, “I’m buying your silence.” His face softened, he gave $50 back, and we went on with the night.

A couple hours later, hot and buzzing from the crowds and endless uncorking of bottles and pouring of wine and music and questions and crowds and heat, I realized how happy I was to be by his side through it all.

“You know,” I said, “it’s 50 bucks. That sucks. But I would spend 50 bucks to hang out with you any night.” He gave me a big smile and smooch and hug. “Me, too.”

And the best part? The ticket was actually $65. A bargain!