Читать книгу Loose Screws - Karen Templeton - Страница 8

“You shouldn’t trek up there by yourself,” Nedra says on the other end of the line, a scant week after my aborted nuptials. “I’m going with you.”

“Up there” is Scarsdale, where I’m about to go to pick up at least some of my clothes, as per Greg’s—who is very much alive, by the way; more on that in a minute—suggestion. Although Nedra and I have talked on the phone several times since Sunday, I haven’t yet seen her live and in person. A state of affairs that I intend to continue as long as I possibly can. Hey—I’m having enough trouble finding my own snatches of air to breathe; competing with my mother for them could be fatal. Still, for a moment, I am tempted to give in to the suggestion that I do not have the strength or enthusiasm requisite to argue. Especially since it’s my own dumb fault for telling her my plans.

Then my survival instinct saves the day with, “Over my dead body.”

This declaration, however, does not bother a woman whose idea of a hot date was being bodily dragged from the scene of a political protest. If anything, I can feel her cranking up to the challenge. I cut her off at the pass.

“This is something I have to do myself,” I say, thinking, Hmm…not bad. I pour myself a glass of orange juice, take my Pill even though I obviously don’t—and won’t—need birth control for the forseeable future. But the thought of dealing with heavy periods and cramps again, after ten years without, gives me the willies. After I swallow I say, “I’m all grown up now. Don’t need my mommy to hold my hand.”

“Did I say that? But how are you planning on lugging everything back on the train by yourself?”

So I hadn’t thought that part through. But there are times when self-preservation outweighs logic.

“I’ll manage.”

“You shouldn’t have to face That Woman alone.”

Why Nedra detests Phyllis Munson so much, I have no idea. Greg’s mother has always been gracious to mine, the few times they’ve met. But then, Phyllis is gracious to everybody. While my mother was burning bras and flags in the sixties, Greg’s mother was kissing up to pageant judges. She even made it to Atlantic City as Miss New York one year, I forget which. Something tells me she’s never gotten over not making the top ten. But my point is, I don’t think Phyllis knows how not to smile. Although you do have to wonder if all those years of just being so gosh-darn nice don’t take their toll.

In any case, things are liable to be just a bit on the tense side between Phyllis and me, since her son skipped out on our wedding and we’re both going to feel weird and not know what to say and all. Adding my mother to the mix would be like pouring hot sauce over Szechuan chicken. Besides, the last thing I need is for my mother to see how terrified I am of venturing out into the real world.

So I muster every scrap of conviction I can and say, “I’m going alone, and that’s that,” and my mother gives one of those long-suffering sighs that daughters the world over dread, then says, “Okay, fine, fine…” which of course means it isn’t fine, but she’ll deal with it. For a moment I savor the small, exquisitely precious victory. Only then she says, “You know, it’s not as if I’m going to embarrass you or anything.”

If I had the energy, I’d laugh.

“So,” she says, as if my not refuting her comment doesn’t matter, “when are you leaving?”

I hedge. “Elevenish.” My heart starts thundering in my chest. I open the freezer, find three Healthy Choice dinners, a half-filled ice cube tray, and one lone Häagen-Dazs bar. With nuts. “Maybe.” I rip off the paper, sighing at the sensation of creamy chocolate exploding in my mouth. Yes, I know it’s barely 9:00 a.m. So? “I’m not sure.” Which of course is a bold-faced lie, since if Phyllis is meeting me, obviously I can’t just mosey on up there whenever the mood strikes.

“Call me when you get back,” Nedra says, and I say “Sure,” although we both know I won’t.

I hang up and sigh, relieved to have my thoughts to myself again, hating having my thoughts to myself again. God, this is so creepy, this walking-a-tightrope-over-Niagara-Falls-in-a-dense-fog feeling. I keep thinking, if I just keep still, don’t rush things, the real Ginger will come back to play. The real Ginger will come back to life.

I’ve turned into an absolute slug. I’ve spent most of the past week on the sofa in my pj’s, scarfing down Cheetos and Häagen-Dazs and cherry Cokes whilst staring zombie-fashion at the soaps. And then there’s Sally Jesse, and Oprah, and all those morbidly fascinating court TV shows. Criminy, where do they get these people? From a cold storage locker in Area 51?

Munching away on the ice cream bar, I gaze at the wedding dress, still lolling in the middle of the floor like a wilted magnolia. I have no idea what to do with it. I can’t exactly throw it out, I certainly can’t see packing it away as a keepsake, or giving something with this much bad karma to someone else. So there it sits. With any luck the silk will eventually biodegrade, leaving behind a small, neat pile of satin-covered buttons I can just bury or something.

The tulle snags on my leg stubble as I shuffle through the dress on my way to the sofa. Guess I should shave.

Guess I should bathe.

I sink onto the sofa—my only concession to “cleaning” has been to push the bed back into the sofa sometime during the day—my mouth full of melting chocolate and ice cream. I am one miserable chick, lemme tell ya. What’s weird though, is that I actually felt better a few days ago than I do now. There was a period there—

Okay, wait. Let’s back up and I’ll fill you in.

The day after the wedding is a total loss. Whoever said champagne doesn’t give you a hangover lied. By the following day, however, I had recovered enough to face my kitchen, as well as my phone, which, when I finally got up the nerve to check, was up to twenty-five messages. A new world’s record. (I’d turned my cell ringer off, too. I figured the world could do without me for a couple days.) Gathering the tatters of my courage—and Ted’s fabulous lemon poppyseed bundt cake—I plopped my fanny up on my bar stool and pressed the play button.

The first thirteen messages, as I’d suspected, were all basically variations on the “Are you okay? Call me” theme from my mother. Then:

“Hey, Ginger, it’s Nick. Just checkin’ in, see if you heard anything. Let me know.”

“Nick.” Not “Nicky.” Got it. I also got something else, a genuine concern that wasn’t at all sexual in nature. No, really. He was family, after all, in a peripheral kind of way. And once sober, I realized my reaction to him had been due to nothing more than booze and shock. Besides, the last time I talked to Paula, she told me Nicky—Nick—had a new girlfriend, she’d met her once, she was okay but for God’s sake this was like the sixth one this year and God knew she thought the world of her brother-in-law, but when the hell was he planning on growing up, already?

Another three messages from my mother, then:

“Girl, pick up the damn phone!” Terrie. “Come on, come on…damn. I know you’re in there, probably cryin’ your eyes out, which is a shame ’cause the sorry skank ain’t worth it….”

One thing I’ll say for Terrie—there won’t be any “there are other fish in the sea” pep talks from that quarter, since as far as she’s concerned, the only thing that happens when you take fish out of the water is they start to stink.

“Okay, I guess this means you’re either sittin’ there not answering or you’ve turned off your ringer. I don’t suppose I blame you. But you just remember, if you hear this anytime in the next decade, that this is NOT your fault. Okay, baby—you give me a call when you return to the land of the living, we’ll go out and par-tay.”

Uh-huh. At that moment I’d been feeling a strong affinity with Mrs. Krupcek in 5-B who, legend has it, got stuck in the elevator for two hours one day back in the eighties when the building lost electricity and consequently peed all over herself. Nobody’s seen her leave the building since.

I haven’t called her back yet. Terrie, I mean, not Mrs. Krupcek. But Terrie will understand. I hope.

“Uh, yeah?” the next message started. “It’s Tony from Blockbuster?” At the time, I wondered which he wasn’t sure about, that his name was Tony or that he was from Blockbuster. “I’m just calling to let you know that Death in Venice is five days overdue? Okay, ’bye.”

First thought: Who the hell rented Death in Venice?

Second thought: There’s a video in here somewhere?

“Hi, honey, it’s Shelby. Are you there? Okay, I guess not. Anyway, Mark and I thought maybe you might like to come over for dinner one night this week? The kids have been asking about you. Well, okay. Love you. ’Bye.”

To answer your question, no, I didn’t accept her invitation. Although I did eventually call her back and thank her. But God knows the last thing I need right now is to spend an evening with Ozzie and Harriet Bernstein. Maybe next month. Or something.

I shoveled another bite of cake into my mouth, then:

“Hey, Ginge—”

The fork went flying as I grabbed for the phone at the sound of Greg’s voice, totally forgetting it was a message, stupid.

“…I heard via the grapevine that my father went off the deep end and called in the authorities, so I figured I’d better let everybody know I’m okay. I just couldn’t…” I heard him sigh. “Damn, there’s no easy way to do this…”

Now you have to remember that, up to this point, I had convinced myself the guy was either dead, kidnapped, or had an otherwise perfectly reasonable explanation for his vanishing act. When it was immediately obvious the first option was moot, and the second was highly doubtful—this was not someone who sounded as if a gun was being held to his head—that left me with Door Number Three. Which wasn’t looking promising, either.

“…I know you’re probably angry—okay, extremely angry.”

Yeah, okay, I’d been that a time or two in the past forty-eight hours.

“…and you have every right to be. What I did was unforgivable, and if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never completely understand why I bolted like that. No, no…that’s not entirely true. I guess I…um…panicked. About us, about getting married, about the way you’d set me up on some sort of pedestal—”

I choke on my cake.

“—and I realized I hadn’t taken the time I needed to think this through…”

By that point, my ire was beginning to perk quite nicely. I mean, hey—there was some reason why he couldn’t have arrived at this conclusion before I spent my entire life’s savings on food that nobody ever got to eat?

And what is this I set him up on some sort of pedestal crap?

“…I mean, I really didn’t see this coming, so I don’t want you to think this was all a game or anything like that. But…God, Ginge, I’m slime.”

No argument there.

“…my main regret is that I didn’t realize how I felt until I was getting ready to leave the house on Saturday. I guess I’d just gotten so caught up in…everything, I didn’t take five minutes to ask myself if I was really ready for this…”

The man is thirty-five frickin’ years old, for God’s sake. When did he think he would be ready?

“…I mean, the sex was great, wasn’t it?”

I looked over at my coffee table and sighed.

“…and who knew my parents would file a missing person’s report, for chrissake? I mean, I hope that didn’t cause you any more distress…”

Oh, no. Not at all.

“…and I hope maybe one day, we can be friends again, although I’ll completely understand if you hate my guts.”

You think?

“…anyway, I’ll settle up with Blockbuster sometime this week—”

Which answered that question. Still haven’t found that sucker, by the way.

“—if you wouldn’t mind dropping off the flick when you’re out? And I guess maybe we should arrange for you to get your things, whenever it’s convenient? Maybe you could call Mom. I mean, that would probably be easier, don’t you think?”

Hence the Scarsdale pilgrimage.

“Oh, and listen…” I heard what could pass for a heartfelt sigh. “I didn’t mean for you to get saddled with all the bills, I swear. Please, send them on to the office, okay? I promise I’ll take care of them. Well.” Throat clearing sounds. “I guess…well. ’Bye. And, Ginge?”

“What?” I snapped at the hapless machine.

“This has nothing to do with you, okay? I mean it. You’re really terrific. God, I’m sorry.”

You got that right.

After fast forwarding through the rest of the messages, all from my mother, I glanced down at the cake to discover I’d somehow eaten half of it. Not that this was really any big deal since—don’t hate me—I can eat anything I want and never gain weight (although I have a sneaking suspicion all those calories are lying around my body like a bunch of microscopic air mattresses set to inflate on my fortieth birthday). But it was all sitting at the base of my throat when I started to cry—a sobbing-so-hard-I-can’t-catch-my-breath jag that, combined with the cake residue in my mouth, made me choke so badly I thought my brain was going to explode.

Five minutes later, reduced to a limp, shuddering, sweating rag, I came to the disheartening conclusion that although eviceration with a dull knife would have been preferable to what I was feeling at that moment, I still loved the scumbag. Nearly a week later, I still feel that way. I mean, why else would I have put away a dozen bags of Cheetos? I should hate him, I know that, but I’ve never been in love before, not really, and I find it’s not something I can just turn off like a faucet. Which either makes me very loyal or very stupid. Yes, I’m hurt and furious and want to inflict serious bodily damage, but when I played back the message (oh, and like you wouldn’t?), he just sounded so upset….

Well. Anyway. I sat, still shoveling in cake and letting my emotions buffet me when the phone rang, making me jump out of my skin because I’d pushed the ringer too high. Too stunned to remember I wasn’t supposed to be answering, I picked up.

“Hey, Ginger? It’s Nick.”

Bet you saw that coming, didn’t you?

I, however, didn’t. And I thought, oh, yeah, like this is really going to make me feel better. I rammed my hand through my hair, only my engagement ring got caught in a snarl, which made me wince, which launched me into another coughing fit.

Nick asked if I was okay, but of course I couldn’t reply because I was choking to death. “Hang on,” I croaked into the phone, then lurched toward the sink, gulped down a half glass of tepid water since I’d run out of bottled. Yech.

A minute later, I picked up the phone and got out, “Guess who I just heard from?”

“I know,” Nick said. “I just got word. Munson’s fine.”

He almost sounded disappointed.

Bet Nick wouldn’t just walk away like that, I thought, only to remember that’s exactly what he’d done.

My gaze drifted to my left hand and the engagement ring the size of Queens I’d worn proudly since Valentine’s Day. Two carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. Hell, for this puppy, I’d even let my nails grow out.

I haven’t decided what to do with that, either.

But back to the phone call.

“Yeah,” I said. “Great news, huh?”

“Damn,” Nick said softly. Like it wasn’t a swear word, somehow. “What happened?”

Much to my chagrin, tears again stung my eyes. “He left a message on my answering machine. My answering machine.”

“You’re kidding me? Man, that is so lame,” Nick said, and anger tried to suck me back in. And it would have felt good, I suppose, to have just gone with the flow for a minute. But then I reminded myself of the conscious choice I made as a child, not to let my emotions control me, to make decisions based on reason and logic, not on passion and impulse.

That I am not my mother.

And at that moment tranquility rippled through me. Or it might have been a breeze from the open kitchen window. But for just a few seconds there, I felt that everything was going to be okay, that maybe the storm had tipped my boat, but it was completely within my power to right it again.

I stretched, popping the knotted-up muscles at the base of my neck. “He was very apologetic, though.” My voice seemed eerily level, even to my own ears. “I mean, he’s not sticking me with the rest of the bills or anything.”

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Scaring you? Why?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be incoherent and breaking things right about now?”

I wasn’t sure whether to be dumbfounded or indignant. “That would be like me saying all men sit around every Sunday afternoon, watching sports and stuffing their faces with nachos and pork rinds.”

“Yeah. So?”

I huffed a little sigh. “Greg didn’t.”

“No, all he did was go AWOL on your wedding day.”

I frowned. Just a tiny one, though. “But he said—”

“I don’t give a shit what he said. Guy doesn’t even have the balls to tell you in person. He treated you like dirt, Ginger. Like I should’ve called you after…you know. Paula’s wedding. But I didn’t. And even though I was only twenty-one and still functioning on half a brain, that still makes me scum, which I can live with. But what that guy did to you…dammit! Why aren’t you more pissed?”

“Because anger is counterproductive—”

“That’s bull. And holding it in isn’t healthy.”

“Then you must not be paying attention in those anger management classes they make you take,” I said, feeling my face redden. What the hell was this guy trying to do to me?

“Managing it isn’t the same as stifling it.”

“Speaking of stifling it—”

“I bet you’re even still wearing his ring.”

“That’s none of your bus—”

“Take it off, Ginger. Now.”

That’s when, in the process of swiping my hand across the face, I scraped my nose with one of the prongs (something I’d managed to do at least once a day since I put the damn thing on, if you want to know the truth), which was just enough to send me over the edge. So I yanked off the ring and hurled it against the counter backsplash. The clatter was surprisingly loud. And satisfying.

“Is it off?” Nick said.

“I hope you’re alone,” I said, suppressing the urge to paw through my cookbooks before the roaches carted it off (yeah, we got ’em on the East Side, but they’ve got little Louis Vuitton gold initials all over them), “because do you have any idea how your end of the conversation sounds—”

“Is…it…off?”

“You know, you’ve got a real problem with patience—”

“Goddammit, Ginger—”

“Yes, Nick. The ring is off. Happy?”

“Delirious. Did you throw it?”

I shoved my hair out of my face. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did—”

“Hard?”

With a weighty sigh, I hauled myself off the stool, leaned over to squint at the backsplash. Sure enough, there was a tiny scratch. Which I will swear was there when I moved in. Since I was in already in the neighborhood, I picked up the ring, then I sat back down with a grunt, twiddling the bauble between my thumb and index finger. “Hard enough.”

“Good,” Nick said, with a note of my-work-here-is-done accomplishment in his voice. “Anyway. Just wanted to touch base. Let you officially know you’re in the clear.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

Silence strained across the line.

“So. You take care, okay? And, Ginger?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t put the ring back on.”

After he hung up, I sat and listened to the dial tone for several seconds, my body humming like I’d just had insta-sex.

So now that you’ve been treated to Day 3 of How Ginger Spent Her Honeymoon, we can skip ahead to the equally fun-filled present, where I’m doing the catatonic number in front of the tube. Nick hasn’t called since. Not that there’s any reason he should.

And the ring is safely snoozing in its little Tiffany box, tucked underneath my undies.

And, as you may have guessed, the I’m-gonna-right-this-boat feeling passed. I might have ridden the crest for a moment or two, but then the wave took me under again. I hadn’t fully realized how much I’d loathed dating until I no longer had to. The gruesome prospect of having to start over is more than I can bear thinking about.

Credits roll on the screen in front of me, which means it’s later than I thought, which means I have to face the music, or in this case the shower, and fix myself up at least enough so I don’t frighten little children when I step outside. Last time I caught my reflection, I looked like an electrocuted poodle. And I really should take the cake plate back to Ted and Randall. Maybe I’ll look sad enough that they will take pity on me and fill it up again. I’m thinking maybe chocolate-chip-macadamia-oatmeal cookies. Or brownies would be good, too…

My phone rings again. I hesitate, then answer.

“Cara?”

My heart stops. It’s my grandmother.

Who never, ever, ever makes phone calls.

“Nonna, what’s—?”

“Your mother, she is onna her way to your place. Inna taxi. But you never heard it from me.”

For about ten seconds after Nonna hangs up, I contemplate the fortuity of Greg’s not being dead and my consequent removal from the N.Y.P.D.’s suspect list because now it will take them longer to connect me to my mother’s murder. Of course, if and when they finally did, maybe Nick would have to come back and question me again—which held a definite appeal, over and above being rid of my mother—only I don’t think I could stand the look of disappointment in his eyes when he found out I dunnit. So I guess I’ll let my mother live.

And please don’t take my ramblings seriously. I can’t even set a mouse trap.

In any case, while I’ve been standing here plotting my mother’s demise, the clock has been quietly ticking away. Now I quickly calculate how long it will take a taxi to get here from Riverside Drive and 116th Street and realize I can either clean me or clean the apartment, but not both, which provokes a spate of agitated swearing. Not that my mother’s a neat freak, believe me—until Nonna came to live with us after my grandfather died when I was ten, I didn’t even know you could make a bed—but one look at this place, and she’s going to know I’m not exactly in control.

Not an option.

Naturally, every single muscle immediately seizes, a condition in which I might have remained indefinitely had not the doorbell rung. I let out a single, one-size-fits-all expletive and force myself to the door. Tell me Nedra got the one cabbie in all of Manhattan who actually knew where he was going.

I peer through the keyhole, practically letting out a whoop of joy. When I yank open the door, Verdi engulfs me from the open door across the hall as Alyssa, my neighbor Ted’s twelve-year-old daughter, grins up at me, all legs and braces and silky honey-colored hair and big green eyes. I am so grateful it’s not my mother that I don’t even care about my fried poodle head or that the melted chocolate splotch on my jammies right between my booblets calls attention to the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Not that Ted would care, although I’m not sure I’m setting a good example for Alyssa.

In spite of my panic, I grin back, although I can feel it tremble around the edges. Alyssa’s my buddy; I’ve sat for her more times than I can count since Ted won custody of her four years ago, no mean feat for a gay man, even today. In the last year, she’s begun to notice boys, which I gather is about the same time her father did. But you know how it is, always easier to talk to someone outside the family about these things….

I notice her hands are clamped around a plate of cookies. Oh, yeah—things are definitely looking up.

“We got concerned when we didn’t hear you leave the apartment,” her father now says, looming behind his daughter. I get a glimpse of a faded navy T stretched across a solid torso, and bare, hairy legs protruding from the bottoms of worn drawstring shorts—the freelance writer’s summer chained-to-the-computer ensemble. Underneath silver-splintered, dark brown hair as curly as mine, worry lurks in hazel eyes as he takes in my less-than-reputable appearance. “I hope you didn’t spend longer than ten minutes to get that look, honey, because, trust me, it isn’t you.”

My attention really, really wants to drift back to the cookies, but I suddenly remember the peril I’m in. “Oh, God. My mother’s on her way. In a taxi.”

Ted looks at me, glances over my shoulder into my apartment. I swear he blanches. He, too, has met my mother. “Got it. We’ll be right there.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

Ted throws me a glance that brooks no argument, then says, “Al, go back inside and get the box of trash bags. And grab Randall while you’re at it.”

Knowing the cavalry is coming shakes me from my stupor enough to send me back into my apartment, where I once again freak out. Where did all this crap come from? Do I really subscribe to this many magazines? Why do I have so many dishes? And where am I going to stash it all?

I grab the wedding dress, then stand there doing this bizarre, twitching dance with the thing—there’s no way this puppy is gonna fit in any of my closets and the only door behind which I could conceivably hide it leads to the bathroom. Where I need to be right now—

Randall, Ted’s lover, slips his bold, buff, black, bald self in through the open door, lets out a deep bark of laughter. He’s in High-Wasp casual mode—Dockers, blue Oxford, striped tie, penny loafers. And a diamond earring. “Lord, woman—you have a consolation orgy in here or what?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ted and Alyssa return. To my immense relief, she still has the cookies, which she sets on the counter. A synapse or two misfires.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know how it got this way. Are those for me?” I finish with a bright smile for Alyssa.

“Uh-huh,” the kid says. “Dad taught me how to make them this morning.” She peels back the Saran and carries the plate over to me. Randall pries the crushed dress from my hands before I salivate all over it. I take a cookie, watching him stride out the door. It is a bittersweet moment.

“The place got this way, honey,” Ted says, deftly picking up the thread of the conversation, “because you’re a pack rat living in a shoebox. Okay, Al,” he says to his daughter, attacking the corner where the desk used to be, “the object is not to clean, but to make it look clean.”

“You mean, like when Mom comes over?”

“You got it.”

I stand there munching as the child calmly opens a closet, begins shoving things inside like a pro, while her father straightens and stacks and fluffs. “You know,” he says, “a cousin of mine just got a three bedroom in Hoboken for probably half what you’re paying for this dump.”

That’s enough to make me stop chewing. “But it’s in Jersey.”

Ted considers this for a moment. “Good point.”

Randall returns, sans dress.

“What did you do with it?” I ask.

“Do you really care?”

“I—no, actually.”

It might be my imagination, but I think I see something akin to relief in his dark eyes. I don’t think either Ted or Randall cared much for Greg, although they never said anything. Then a grin stretches across Randall’s molasses-colored face, popping out a set of truly adorable dimples, before he says something about hiding a wedding dress being a damn sight easier than hiding Ted when Randall’s mother pops in for a visit. So I grab another cookie, since they’re sitting right there on the coffee table, and start in about how, since Randall’s well into his thirties and not married, his parents might have a few suspicions, when Ted straightens and says, “Hello, Miss Chatterbox? I’m busting my butt here while you’re standing here dispensing advice about honesty issues?”

When I jump and head toward the kitchen, he snags me with one long arm, whipping me around and flinging me toward the bathroom door. “We do this. You do you. And burn that…thing you’re wearing.”

Seconds later I step into the shower and imagine I hear Shelby’s perky little voice saying, “Now, think positive, honey. Things really will turn out for the best,” followed immediately by Terrie’s, “You don’t need that sorry piece of dog doo in your life, girl, and you know it.” And between that and the sugar high, I think, You know, they’re right. I have terrific friends and hot water when I actually need it and a new client to see on Monday and a brand-new bottle of shampoo to try out and my period isn’t due for two more weeks. So I was supposed to be on my honeymoon right now. So my heart is broken. I will heal, life will go on, because I am woman and I am invincible and no man is gonna get me down when I live in a city where I can get Kung-Pao chicken delivered to my door twenty-four/seven.

Now if I could just convince this permanent lump in the center of my chest to go away, I’d be cookin’ with gas.

When I emerge, ten minutes and one hairless body later—my mother equates shaving with kowtowing to male standards of beauty; my take on it is I prefer not to look as though I’ve missed several rungs on the evolutionary ladder—my apartment once again looks like someone reasonably civilized lives here and Ted and Randall and Alyssa are nowhere in sight. The Blockbuster box, however, is. Which means, yes, the movie’s now so late, I’m surprised they haven’t sent their goons after me. On that cheery note, I grab another cookie (huh—looks like they took a few back with them) and I think how much I love this silly little place, with its Barbie kitchen and high ceiling and two big windows looking east across Second Avenue to the apartment directly across from mine.

Five years ago, I sublet it from a costume designer named Annie Murphy for six months while she went out to L.A. to do a movie. Only, she kept getting work out there and never came back. And over the years, her sister from Hoboken would come to cart off Annie’s furniture—with Annie’s blessings—and I’d replace it. The place was truly mine now, in every sense but the lease.

But I would have been happy in suburbia, too. I was going to get a dog. A big dog. Something that slobbered.

Oh, well.

Anyway, while I’m musing about all this, my mouth clamped around half a cookie, I make myself open one of the bags I’d packed for the honeymoon, where whatever clothes I do have reside. All sorts of slippery, shiny, weightless things—some new, some old favorites—wink at me when I flip back the top. I spend my working day in simple, neutral outfits: black, beige, gray, cream. Nothing that would distract my clients—I want them to see my designs, not the designer. On my off hours, I go wild. Salsa colors. Bold prints. Stuff that makes me happy.

Licking crumbs from my lips and telling myself I do not need another cookie, especially on top of the Häagen-Dazs bar, I slip into a pair of brand-new, fire-engine-red bikinis and matching lace bra that are more concept than substance, a short purple skirt, a silk turquoise tank top. I may have pitiful tits but my legs are good, if I do say so myself, especially in this pair of gold leather-and-acrylic mules that make me nearly six feet tall. On my Favorite Things list, shoes rank right behind food and sex. Although sometimes, on days like today, sex gets bumped to third. I turn, admiring my feet. God, these are so hot.

A pair of combs to hold back my hair, a spritz of perfume, a slick of lip gloss—

I look at my reflection and think, God, Greg. Look what you’re missing. Then the intercom buzzes.

And I just think, God.