Читать книгу Freudian Slip - Erica Orloff - Страница 12

TIME TO GET YOU OUTof this apartment, Kate thought to herself. Sitting here crying isn’t helping matters. She walked to her bedroom and opened her closet doors.

Her closet was just a few inches short of a walk-in—a rarity in Manhattan. The rest of the apartment was small, just shy of 550 square feet. Still, she was beyond lucky to have it. Her father had always been so cautious and insured himself through the New York Fire Department. Plus the settlement she and her mother received after his death. And then the money her grandfather on her mother’s side left her. She knew it was astounding that she had this place at all at her age, in this city. That she owned it—albeit with a hefty mortgage was even more astounding. She would have bought it for this closet alone—let alone the proximity to the park.

She began pushing aside shirts. No, no, no, they’re all wrong.

She frowned. What, exactly, was wrong with her clothes? She had never particularly cared. A jeans and T-shirt gal, she had been a tomboy growing up. Softball, soccer, field hockey. Her dad came to as many games as he could. Now, working in Manhattan, she wore pantsuits in black. Black. Black. Grey. Adventurous was the camel-colored one.

None of this stuff is sexy. You’ve got a great body, you need to show it off a little. Get playful.

She rolled her eyes and searched deeper into her closet, passing by white blouses. While she used to believe you couldn’t go wrong with a fitted white blouse, nothing dangling from the multitude of hangers seemed right. Then, way near the back, a low V-neck, fitted T-shirt with a funky Asian graphic on it. She never thought the shirt was “her,” but it had been a gift when her cousin Mallory went to Hong Kong on business. Mal was always the wild cousin, sneaking off at family gatherings to smoke cigarettes when they were fifteen, running off to Paris for six months after college to drink wine, eat cheese and make love with sexy European men—including an Italian soccer star.

Kate pulled the shirt out of the closet and held it up. With a pair of black jeans, it might be what she was looking for. Not that she knew what it was she was going to do beyond getting out into the fresh night air, away from her apartment. It was unsettling to her that someone had broken in. The super had come to change the lock already, but still, she was creeped out.

She pulled on the top and dug out a pair of True Religion jeans that fit her pretty well. She padded, barefoot, to the bathroom door, on which hung a full-length mirror.

There you go, Kate. Own it. You’re fuckable.

“Jesus!” she said aloud. “Where the hell did that come from? Too much wine yesterday.”

She brushed her teeth and, uncharacteristically, dabbed some lip gloss on her lips. She stared into the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy, so she shrugged and added concealer and then two coats of mascara.

“That’s better,” she said and smiled.

Walking through her apartment, she grabbed her keys, and tucked them and three twenties into her pocket, grabbed some fliers and some tape, and headed out the door.

Even on the way down the stairs, she had no real idea of where she was going, an aimless feeling completely unfamiliar to her. She taped some fliers in the laundry room and next to the mailboxes, and then by the stairwell. Then she burst through the building’s front door like a second-grader on the first day of summer, and a warm breeze stroked her face. It almost felt like a man’s fingers gently touching her. Feeling unexpectedly buoyed, she set off toward her favorite pizzeria to grab a slice and a Diet Coke.

At the corner, she headed east to Gino’s, passing countless NYU students in T-shirts and shorts. Even in summer, the university had plenty of students filling the sidewalks and pizza places and bars of Greenwich Village. Gino’s was a favorite haunt, and the place stayed open nearly twenty-four hours, taking advantage of late-night student munchies. She walked in, the bell on the glass door tinkling slightly. The scent of fresh dough and tomato sauce caused her stomach to remind her that all she’d consumed in the last twenty-fours was yogurt and wine.

“Hey, Carlos,” she said to the owner. He had long ago explained to her he bought the place from Gino and kept the name. “Two slices. Burn ’em. And a Diet Coke.” She sat down at the long bar.

Carlos, of the smoldering dark looks, black eyes and rock-star bald head and earring, stared at her.

“What’d you do, Kate-Baby?”

“Hmm?” she asked.

“What’d you do? To your face? New haircut? Something.” He leaned back and folded his arms across his muscular chest. His tattoo of Jesus on a cross flexed along with his biceps.

“No,” she said, puzzled.

It’s the shirt. Told you. Nice rack.

“What is it?” Carlos asked again.

“Hmm?” She shook her head to quiet this suddenly obnoxious inner voice. What the hell was in that wine last night? They were breasts, or even boobs. But never a rack. What was wrong with her?

“Maybe it’s my breasts…um…shirt.”

Carlos nodded appreciatively. “You should wear it more often, angel.” He propped his elbows on the bar and leaned forward.

Kate felt herself flush. Carlos was one of those guys that it would never, in a million years, cross her mind to date. He oozed sex. Right down to the ever-present bulge in his Levis. She had never been one for meaningless sex, no “friends with benefits.” That was Mal’s thing.

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

The slices came out of the oven, burned the way she liked them. She bit into the gooey cheese and promptly burned the top of her mouth, causing tears to spring to her eyes. She quickly took a sip of ice-cold soda.

“Burn your lips, angel? I could kiss them for you.” Carlos winked at her.

Oh, for God’s sake. Is that the best this grease-ball can do? Finish up and head out the door.

Kate blew on her piece of pizza, and ate it, savoring the perfect combination of cheese, crust and tomato sauce. Carlos continued to flirt with her, and Kate made a mental note to drag out the shirt from Hong Kong more often. She didn’t want Carlos so much, but the attention was rather nice. After last night with David, she had wondered if she was pathetically unlovable.

She finished her pizza, paid her bill with a twenty and waved goodbye to Carlos, who was, typically, onto his next flirtation.

Kate strolled home, starting to feel a bit better. She stopped in Washington Square Park to watch the speed chess players. Sometimes she played a game or two, but this evening, as dusk settled over the sky, she was content to watch. On one end of the park stood one of NYU’s buildings, its deep purple flag flapping in the summer breeze.

She was an NYU alumna. She remembered wistfully looking at the university and knowing there was no way her family could afford it. But her father worked his off days as a carpenter for his uncle’s construction company, and saved every dime. Between that, grants and student loans, she’d been able to attend her dream college.

Three in-line skaters went past. A guy strummed a guitar, playing, she listened carefully, a Radio-head song done as a slow acoustic number. She saw a few skateboarders, more students and a few people in professional clothes, eating take-out dinners. She loved the park.

She walked the rest of the way home and entered her building and then climbed the staircase to her apartment.

As she started down toward her door, she saw the guy from across the hall holding Honey.

“Oh my God.” She felt a sob escape and raced toward her dog.

“Found her just sitting on my doorstep about fifteen minutes ago when I went to do the laundry. Just sitting there, looking up at me. Patiently waiting.”

He placed the now wriggling little dog in her arms, and she could feel Honey trembling—what she always did when she was excited. Her little tail was wagging, and she “yipped” once.

Tears in her eyes, she spontaneously hugged her neighbor. “Thank you, Zack. Thank you so much.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said modestly.

That’s right he didn’t.

“Oh, but you have no idea. I was just lost without her.” She kissed her dog on the nose.

Dog germs.

Kate furrowed her brow.

“What?” Zack asked her.

“Nothing. I…I just have been out of sorts. Don’t know if you heard—my apartment was broken into.”

“I did. I’m really sorry. You know, if you ever need anything, or you’re just…scared to go into an empty apartment, knock on my door and I’ll check around the place for you, or whatever. Anything you need.”

He looked down awkwardly, but she touched his arm. “I will. Thank you. I mean it.” She squeezed his arm slightly. He was so handsome, she thought, and it was such a shame about his wife.

Holding her dog, she turned to enter her apartment. Once she shut the door, she set down Honey, who proceeded to run from one end of the room to the other, yipping and barking.

Shut up.

Honey barked insistently, almost like she was trying to tell Kate something.

“Why are you barking? That’s not like you, Honey. I bet you were so worried and scared when you saw the robber. It’s a good thing you were just lost and he didn’t hurt you.”

Honey moved toward Kate, but seemed to look past her, focusing upon one spot and yipping incessantly.

Go away. Tell the dog to be quiet. Tell it.

“Hush, Honey. What are you barking at? Was the robber there? Can you smell him?”

The dog wouldn’t budge from the one spot. Kate reached down to reassure her little dog. Honey quieted, but still stared, fixated on a spot on the ceiling.

Kate went to the kitchen and set down a bowl of food and one of water. “Come on, Honey,” she coaxed. “Don’t you want to eat?”

Honey still wouldn’t move. Puzzled, Kate walked over to her dog, scooped her up and carried her to her dog dish. Finally, Honey picked at the kibbles and drank some water, then she went over to her green plaid dog bed, turned around three times and settled in for a nap.

Kate walked toward the stereo.

Nothing depressing, Kate. How about the Clash? Or better yet, what about a shower?

Shrugging, she changed her mind about the music. She stood and shed her T-shirt, walking toward the bathroom.

Now this is more like it.

“I swear I need Prozac or something. Shut up!” she said to herself.

Not a chance. We’ve got things to do, Katie Girl. We’ve got things to do.