The night after my sketch show with Sara opened, Anne and I were (understandably) incredibly hung over. She spent the night at my house, and we woke up in the afternoon, cursing the sunlight. I suggested brunch, so we threw on some dumpy clothes and made our way through my neighborhood.
Carroll Gardens, where I've lived for the past 3 years, is at its most charming on an early Spring Sunday. As we walked, groaning and trying not to retch, Anne and I laughed about some mishap that had occurred. We arrived at a cozy, crowded brunch location called Le Petit Cafe. The only table available was in the back garden, and Anne and I were in no mood to dally before getting our Bloody Marys. As the hostess led us across the crowded terrace, it occured to me that this lone table was directly below a makeshift platform stage where a there was a man perched on a stool, playing guitaur. But not any guitaur. No, this man, robed in a flowing white poet's shirt, was playing romantic Spanish guitaur music for all to enjoy their crepes over. This would explain why the table had remained open, even in the rush. But events were already in motion, so I gritted my teeth and sat at the table which was right under the musician, who looked like an escapee from a Renaissance Faire.
While we perused the menu, Anne pointed out that everyone at the cafe seemed to be paying us a great deal of attention- and not just because we were at the feet of the Gypsy King. The Brooklyn yuppies around us peered through their tortieshell glasses, adjusted their Snuglis, and beamed as if to say, "We celebrate you! After all that's why we moved to Brooklyn- we're PROGRESSIVE!" I looked at Anne, who had her hair up in a messy bun and wore dark glasses and a baggy shirt. I looked down at my pair of "fat" jeans, androgynous Paul Frank t-shirt and flip flops, and I realized that everyone at the restaurant thought Anne and I were a gay couple, perhaps having our first post-cuddling brunch. Anne leaned over and annoucned, "This is the soundtrack to our love", indicating the soulful strumming emmanating a mere 2 inches from our heads. From the self-important solidarity looks we were getting from the other diners, I had to agree with her.
Post brunch, we went to the park and laid out in the sun, further solidifying our status as a couple. And that evening we went to the store and bought the ingredients to make delicious pigs in a blanket, or as Anne calles them, weenie bites. Subconsciously phallic? You tell me.
Now whenever we go to do something together, it seems to end up being strangely romantic. Like the time we were starving and went to eat at a little bistro on Smith called Bar Tabac. As we waited for our orders, the lights dimmed, the music changed, and suddenly it seemed as if we were on a yet another of our special dates. Add to this,the fact that we refer to ourselves as Chyna and Xena, as we are inevitably taller than every other woman in any room we're in, and the plot thickens. It seems useless to fight fate.
It makes me laugh so hard I want to cry, because there's simply no escaping it. Anne and I are life partners. As I'm fond of saying to Ms. Anne, when we're drunk in some dark corner of a dive bar, just the two of us: "Anyone can tell, we're in love."
Brandy & Anne at Vassar. July 30, 2005.