the coffee bean grinder. The bed was empty. She got dressed and took her suitcase into the living room.
“Do you want some coffee?” Gregory asked. He was standing in the kitchen, naked.
“No,” she said. “I better get going.”
Gregory looked at the clock to indicate he was aware of the time—she had plenty of time for coffee—but was kind enough not to mention this fact.
“I want to make sure I’m there when David comes,” said Loren. “I don’t want to keep the cab waiting.” She was meeting him on the corner of Houston and Greene.
“Right,” said Gregory. He put down the grinder and came out from behind the counter. He wasn’t naked; he was wearing boxer shorts. “Do you want me to come down with you?”
“No,” said Loren. “Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s still early.”
Gregory just smiled. He picked up her suitcase. “It’s heavy,” he said. It was a comment rather than a condemnation. Loren took it from him, then put it down while she unfastened the locks. She opened the door.
“Listen,” said Gregory. “Will you call me tonight? Just to let me know everything’s all right?”
“Of course,” said Loren.
They stood for a moment by the open door.
“Okay,” said Gregory. “Go.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, lowered his face to kiss her.
Loren put down the suitcase and embraced him. She started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she seemed to be saying.
Gregory held her and stroked her hair. It was still damp from her shower. It smelled clean. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all okay.”
“No,” said Loren. “I’m sorry.”
After a while they pulled apart. “Call me tonight,” Gregory said. “Tell Kate I said hi.”
Loren nodded and picked up her suitcase. Gregory closed the door behind her. He heard the elevator’s loud ascent, its door clang open, and then its retreat.
He stood for a minute beside the front door, leaning against the wall, and then went over to the window. He was just in time to see Loren turn the corner. Across the street a man was sitting outside of a produce market, chopping the green shocks off carrots. A dog watched him. A woman came out of the store. She inserted a straw into a small carton of Tropicana and drank some. She stood in the sun for a moment talking to either the man or to the dog. Then she headed in Loren’s direction. Gregory tried to picture Loren. Was she still standing on the corner? Or was she already speeding toward the airport? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that she was gone.
“Why is it,” asked Solange Shawangunk, “that the road from the airport to the city always takes the ugliest route possible?” She peered out of the limo’s windows, whose green tint gave Queens a particularly ornery glow. Then she turned to Anton. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“It’s true for every city,” Solange continued. “Think of it: Paris, London. They should hand out blindfolds at the airport.”
They had been away for six weeks, and in that time their apartment, on the thirty-eighth floor of the Trump Tower, had forgotten them. So while Solange perused the mail that had accumulated, Anton moved about, turning on lights, flushing toilets, sitting briefly in all the chairs, reasserting the Shawangunk presence.
“Look at this,” said Solange. She handed him a postcard. On one side was a black and white photograph of a cat eating a noodle out of a man’s eye socket, and on the other side the following message was printed:
OUT OF CONTROL:
PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH JACKSON
THE GALLERY SHAWANGUNK
JULY 13-AUGUST 27, 1988
OPENING RECEPTION WEDNESDAY, JULY 13
6:00-9:00
And below that, the following message was scrawled: I’VE CANCELED ARNOT! SURPRISE! XO AMANDA.
“What’s going on?” asked Solange. “You told me you had fired Amanda.”
“Did I?” asked Anton.
“Yes,” said Solange. “As a matter of fact you did.”
“Well,” said Anton. “It was a
“Do you want some coffee?” Gregory asked. He was standing in the kitchen, naked.
“No,” she said. “I better get going.”
Gregory looked at the clock to indicate he was aware of the time—she had plenty of time for coffee—but was kind enough not to mention this fact.
“I want to make sure I’m there when David comes,” said Loren. “I don’t want to keep the cab waiting.” She was meeting him on the corner of Houston and Greene.
“Right,” said Gregory. He put down the grinder and came out from behind the counter. He wasn’t naked; he was wearing boxer shorts. “Do you want me to come down with you?”
“No,” said Loren. “Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s still early.”
Gregory just smiled. He picked up her suitcase. “It’s heavy,” he said. It was a comment rather than a condemnation. Loren took it from him, then put it down while she unfastened the locks. She opened the door.
“Listen,” said Gregory. “Will you call me tonight? Just to let me know everything’s all right?”
“Of course,” said Loren.
They stood for a moment by the open door.
“Okay,” said Gregory. “Go.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, lowered his face to kiss her.
Loren put down the suitcase and embraced him. She started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she seemed to be saying.
Gregory held her and stroked her hair. It was still damp from her shower. It smelled clean. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all okay.”
“No,” said Loren. “I’m sorry.”
After a while they pulled apart. “Call me tonight,” Gregory said. “Tell Kate I said hi.”
Loren nodded and picked up her suitcase. Gregory closed the door behind her. He heard the elevator’s loud ascent, its door clang open, and then its retreat.
He stood for a minute beside the front door, leaning against the wall, and then went over to the window. He was just in time to see Loren turn the corner. Across the street a man was sitting outside of a produce market, chopping the green shocks off carrots. A dog watched him. A woman came out of the store. She inserted a straw into a small carton of Tropicana and drank some. She stood in the sun for a moment talking to either the man or to the dog. Then she headed in Loren’s direction. Gregory tried to picture Loren. Was she still standing on the corner? Or was she already speeding toward the airport? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that she was gone.
“Why is it,” asked Solange Shawangunk, “that the road from the airport to the city always takes the ugliest route possible?” She peered out of the limo’s windows, whose green tint gave Queens a particularly ornery glow. Then she turned to Anton. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“It’s true for every city,” Solange continued. “Think of it: Paris, London. They should hand out blindfolds at the airport.”
They had been away for six weeks, and in that time their apartment, on the thirty-eighth floor of the Trump Tower, had forgotten them. So while Solange perused the mail that had accumulated, Anton moved about, turning on lights, flushing toilets, sitting briefly in all the chairs, reasserting the Shawangunk presence.
“Look at this,” said Solange. She handed him a postcard. On one side was a black and white photograph of a cat eating a noodle out of a man’s eye socket, and on the other side the following message was printed:
OUT OF CONTROL:
PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH JACKSON
THE GALLERY SHAWANGUNK
JULY 13-AUGUST 27, 1988
OPENING RECEPTION WEDNESDAY, JULY 13
6:00-9:00
And below that, the following message was scrawled: I’VE CANCELED ARNOT! SURPRISE! XO AMANDA.
“What’s going on?” asked Solange. “You told me you had fired Amanda.”
“Did I?” asked Anton.
“Yes,” said Solange. “As a matter of fact you did.”
“Well,” said Anton. “It was a
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