Jackhammers would have been better—loud noises, he could sleep through. For several mornings now, jackhammers had assaulted his eardrums beginning at six a.m., and he was almost used to them. But the persistent buzz of his cell phone at eleven thirty p.m. on a Friday night successfully penetrated his haze of near sleep. The vibration of plastic against night stand was not loud enough to ignore.

He wasn’t sure the call was from Janine, but he knew it probably was. He reasoned as clearly as he could, his mind clouded by the five milligrams of Vicodin he’d swallowed an hour ago. Five milligrams wasn’t much, not by any addict’s standards, but then, he wasn’t an addict. Just a man who was done feeling for the day and whose friend had undergone dental surgery and didn’t like painkillers. At most he took one pill a week on Friday nights when he was alone, or wanted to be.

Last Friday night Janine had come over unexpectedly. Not exactly uninvited, but the idea hadn’t been his either. So he hadn’t felt too bad about surreptitiously ingesting a pill while she’d been in the bathroom. She’d stayed over that night too, which had been okay. He liked a warm body next to him in bed; it could even be soothing if it was the right person keeping him company. Janine probably wasn’t right, but she wasn’t necessarily wrong, and so it had been okay for her to sleep over.

It was just the morning after that he dreaded. As Janine would practice and preach, Saturday mornings are for sleeping in. He knew that’s what he was supposed to believe, and sometimes, he even wished that he agreed. But in his world, Saturday mornings were for working, not for cuddling and bagels and newspapers and slowly sipped cups of coffee.

And Friday nights, they were for sleeping. Or at least lying prone, motionless, letting thoughts blur into unimportance.

Janine thought Fridays were for fun, to take advantage of all New York had to offer, and she’d told him last week that their Blockbuster night was an exception. She’d stay in with him this once, she’d said, but in general, he needed to get out more. With her.

He hadn’t argued—the Vicodin had kicked in by then—but if he’d had the energy to speak he might have disagreed, would have considered explaining how little her opinions mattered to him. Instead, he’d shifted his position on the couch, making a gesture that could have been interpreted as a shrug.

He didn’t care much about Janine, but he cared that she was calling him at eleven thirty on a Friday night. He envisioned her standing in a bathroom stall at whatever swanky bar, probably in the meatpacking district, she and her friends were spending their paychecks at that evening. He mentally debated her intentions, whether she’d implore him to come out or insist on coming over. He decided quickly that the best way to avoid either was to do nothing.

The buzzing stopped. Seconds later, maybe a minute, another vibration resonated at the small table next to his bed. Voicemail.

The next morning at seven fifteen he was halfway to the diner when he decided to check his messages. He’d remembered the unwanted phone call as soon as he awoke, and before a short shower, he had verified that it was Janine who had disturbed him. After getting dressed and leaving his apartment to get a quick breakfast, he’d summoned the will to hear her voice.

“Kyyyyle, don’t be an old fart. Call me back and come meet us! Pllllease, you are only twenty-eight.”

The way she said please, it sounded like a question and a demand at the same time. Janine’s ability to convincingly whine was impressive if not attractive. He was sure there were men who would have felt tempted to accept her plea for companionship. But those men would have answered the phone. Or really, he figured, those men would have called her first. He didn’t understand why women bothered to pursue him. It was against the natural order of things. It wasn’t that he opposed feminine independence; it was just that it didn’t work. Once a woman pursued him, he lost interest. Every time. Especially if she was sexually appealing.

The Westway Café was not crowded yet, but even so he didn’t notice the girl until he had almost finished his omelet. She was in a booth at the back, near the kitchen, typing on a laptop. A coffee mug sat to her left on the edge of the table. It was accompanied by an empty juice glass and half a glass of chocolate milk. He toyed with the idea of approaching her, asking if she was thirsty. He hated pickup lines, but it was hard to meet a stranger without one. He shifted his gaze to the window and focused his eyes on the people walking down Broadway while he considered the pros and cons of a possible conversation.

Pro: She was using a laptop in a diner early on a Saturday morning. It was unlikely she had been up all night partying. But did that mean she was a fellow workaholic? Con: He didn’t need an enabler. He turned his head to look at her again. She appeared young enough to be a Columbia student, but old enough to have graduated, which put her in an acceptable age range. She had blonde hair and he preferred brunettes, but she wasn’t overweight.

He refocused his gaze and watched her as her fingers danced across her keyboard. Without glancing away from her screen, she reached for—maybe the coffee mug, but her forearm clipped the glass of milk and chocolaty brown liquid cascaded onto the floor. She looked over quickly, a hand flying up to cover her open mouth, and he jumped to his feet, as if to offer his assistance. She saw him move toward her, and a flicker of confusion passed across her face as he took three steps, turned around and walked out the door.

He had work to do.

© 2009 Christina Bryza. This story was previously published on Chronicles of New York on 11/9/09.