he said.
“Hi,” I said with my back to him, filling my cup.
“Are you okay?”
I threw the pot of coffee back onto the burner and turned around. “Don’t I look okay?”
“You look like you hate my guts.”
“I do hate your guts.”
“This is really hard for me too, you know.”
“Right,” I said. “You look really
destroyed
.”
“I am.” His tone was both indignant and wounded at the same time. “Look, I’m feeling really fragile today.”
“
You’re
feeling fragile?” I rolled my eyes and snorted. “
Please
. I’m the one who’s going to be homeless in two weeks.” I could not believe that I’d been stupid enough to have given up my apartment.
Just then Eddie appeared. He was wearing all black too, like Johnny Cash, and when he walked over to the coffee machine Ray cowered slightly, the way he always did when Eddie was around.
“So, Eddie,” I began. “I was thinking about what you said the other day. About your needing a roommate.” I glared at Ray. “Since the apartment I was
supposed
to move into just fell through and my current apartment has already been rented, I was wondering if the offer was still good.”
Eddie nodded. Ray looked from him to me in disbelief. “You’re moving in with him?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe.” Then I turned back to Eddie. “Tell me about the apartment.”
Eddie took a sip from his coffee and then stared into it, leaning his hip against the counter. “Like I said, it’s big. It’s cheap. It has two bedrooms, a big living room, an eat-in kitchen, and a bathtub—in the bathroom.”
“It sounds great,” I lied. “When can I see it?”
He shrugged. “You can see it tonight.”
I stared at Ray until he turned pale and looked away. “Fabulous,” I said again. “Everything’s just
fab
ulous.”
Eddie and I left work together that evening and got on the F train heading downtown. I watched longingly as one by one the trains pulled into stations that signified more desirable neighborhoods: Fourteenth Street … West Fourth … Broadway/Lafayette … Second Avenue … until at Essex and Delancey, Eddie announced, “This is us.”
We emerged from the subway into a neighborhood that, on any given day, I would be afraid to walk through in broad daylight. Only now it wasn’t broad daylight. It was nearly dark at six, and we hadn’t even turned the clocks back yet.
“Is it safe here?” I asked.
He lit a cigarette. “Safer than it used to be. The junkie transvestite prostitutes pretty much keep to themselves.”
I felt better.
He pointed to one of the many corner bodegas we had passed. “You can get great pickles here. One of the many advantages of the neighborhood.”
Much better.
When we got to the corner of Stanton and Chrystie, Eddie stopped in front of a big old dirty stone mid-rise tenement with fluorescent lights coming from the long, stark hallway beyond the vestibule. He unlocked the door and held it open for me like an old-world gentleman.
“The manse,” he said, smirking. We went inside.
Up two flights of old white tiled steps was Eddie’s apartment, which I took to calling the Lair, and later, after I’d moved in and made it my home too, the Halfway House, a reference to our mutual, and seemingly unending, recovery from our breakups. Eddie led the way, through the barely securedfront door, down the long hallway with the wall-length coat rack, past the eat-in kitchen, and into the living room with its peeling paint and its book-lined walls and window boxes of ivy. Eddie’s bedroom and adjoining study lay behind a set of French doors, and as I looked around the living room again at the mission table and the green brocade Victorian sofa and
objets d’art
scattered around it was obvious that an eye was very much at work here, and I remarked on it.
“My father was an architect,” Eddie said, lighting a Camel and looking rather pleased with himself. No doubt this was not the first time a woman
“Hi,” I said with my back to him, filling my cup.
“Are you okay?”
I threw the pot of coffee back onto the burner and turned around. “Don’t I look okay?”
“You look like you hate my guts.”
“I do hate your guts.”
“This is really hard for me too, you know.”
“Right,” I said. “You look really
destroyed
.”
“I am.” His tone was both indignant and wounded at the same time. “Look, I’m feeling really fragile today.”
“
You’re
feeling fragile?” I rolled my eyes and snorted. “
Please
. I’m the one who’s going to be homeless in two weeks.” I could not believe that I’d been stupid enough to have given up my apartment.
Just then Eddie appeared. He was wearing all black too, like Johnny Cash, and when he walked over to the coffee machine Ray cowered slightly, the way he always did when Eddie was around.
“So, Eddie,” I began. “I was thinking about what you said the other day. About your needing a roommate.” I glared at Ray. “Since the apartment I was
supposed
to move into just fell through and my current apartment has already been rented, I was wondering if the offer was still good.”
Eddie nodded. Ray looked from him to me in disbelief. “You’re moving in with him?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe.” Then I turned back to Eddie. “Tell me about the apartment.”
Eddie took a sip from his coffee and then stared into it, leaning his hip against the counter. “Like I said, it’s big. It’s cheap. It has two bedrooms, a big living room, an eat-in kitchen, and a bathtub—in the bathroom.”
“It sounds great,” I lied. “When can I see it?”
He shrugged. “You can see it tonight.”
I stared at Ray until he turned pale and looked away. “Fabulous,” I said again. “Everything’s just
fab
ulous.”
Eddie and I left work together that evening and got on the F train heading downtown. I watched longingly as one by one the trains pulled into stations that signified more desirable neighborhoods: Fourteenth Street … West Fourth … Broadway/Lafayette … Second Avenue … until at Essex and Delancey, Eddie announced, “This is us.”
We emerged from the subway into a neighborhood that, on any given day, I would be afraid to walk through in broad daylight. Only now it wasn’t broad daylight. It was nearly dark at six, and we hadn’t even turned the clocks back yet.
“Is it safe here?” I asked.
He lit a cigarette. “Safer than it used to be. The junkie transvestite prostitutes pretty much keep to themselves.”
I felt better.
He pointed to one of the many corner bodegas we had passed. “You can get great pickles here. One of the many advantages of the neighborhood.”
Much better.
When we got to the corner of Stanton and Chrystie, Eddie stopped in front of a big old dirty stone mid-rise tenement with fluorescent lights coming from the long, stark hallway beyond the vestibule. He unlocked the door and held it open for me like an old-world gentleman.
“The manse,” he said, smirking. We went inside.
Up two flights of old white tiled steps was Eddie’s apartment, which I took to calling the Lair, and later, after I’d moved in and made it my home too, the Halfway House, a reference to our mutual, and seemingly unending, recovery from our breakups. Eddie led the way, through the barely securedfront door, down the long hallway with the wall-length coat rack, past the eat-in kitchen, and into the living room with its peeling paint and its book-lined walls and window boxes of ivy. Eddie’s bedroom and adjoining study lay behind a set of French doors, and as I looked around the living room again at the mission table and the green brocade Victorian sofa and
objets d’art
scattered around it was obvious that an eye was very much at work here, and I remarked on it.
“My father was an architect,” Eddie said, lighting a Camel and looking rather pleased with himself. No doubt this was not the first time a woman
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