Let's Stay Together by J.J. Murray

already knew what he would find. The thermostat was set for eighty degrees, and the sweat dripping down the back of his legs proved it. “The thermostat is working fine.”
    “Then why is it so cold?” she asked. “I feel drafts all the time.”
    Patrick checked her windows. “Your windows are sealed tight, Mrs. Moczydlowska. Look, if you want the rats to go away, you have to turn off your oven and turn down your thermostat to something like sixty-eight at night.”
    “You want me to freeze to death,” she said.
    “I don’t want that,” Patrick said.
    “You will find me one day all stiff and blue,” she said.
    He collected his tools. “Mrs. Moczydlowska, you will outlive us all.” He started for the door.
    “Where are you going?” she asked, shuffling rapidly behind him.
    And now we get to dance. He turned and smiled. “I am going to set a few traps in the basement.”
    “You must . . . you must check my bathroom before you go,” she said.
    “What’s wrong in there?” Patrick asked.
    “There are water bubbles on the handles,” she said.
    No doubt from the condensation in this sauna of an apartment.
    “And the lever gets stuck,” she said.
    There’s nothing wrong with the lever.
    “And the drain is slow, so slow,” she said. “It takes two minutes to go down.”
    He nodded. “Could I come back and fix all that tomorrow ?”
    Mrs. Moczydlowska almost smiled. “Yes. You must come back tomorrow. You must fix. Or I call your boss.”
    “I will see you tomorrow, then.” He opened the door. “Turn off your oven tonight, okay?”
    “This once I will do,” she said. “But if I freeze to death, it is on your head.”
    “Use lots of blankets instead,” he said. “Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye,” she said. “Good-bye, Patrick.”
    While he checked, emptied, and reset several traps in the basement, he heard Mrs. Moczydlowska’s creaking floorboards above him. I wish she had someone else to check up on her, and I wish she wouldn’t feel she had to make up things for me to do. I’d visit her if she asked me to. She’s no worse than any other tenant. She just doesn’t want me to know she’s scared and lonely. In a way, this job only makes sense to me because of the Mrs. Moczydlowskas of the world. As much as she complains, in her own bitter way, she is happy to see me.
    Before going home, he looked for Feel the Love, Lauren’s first movie, at Video Free Brooklyn on Smith Street. He had rented it a long time ago, and he was surprised to find it wedged tightly between Fast & Furious 6 and Feel the Noise. At the counter, he showed the owner an ancient rental card.
    “You haven’t been in here in a while,” he said. “The previous owners used this card. Let me get you a new one. I’ll need to see a credit card.”
    “I, um, no longer have one,” Patrick said. I haven’t had a credit card since Natalia, and I only got one to impress her. I didn’t tell Natalia it only had a five-hundred-dollar limit.
    “A debit card will do,” the man said.
    “I’m old school,” Patrick said. “I write checks.”
    “I don’t take checks,” the man said.
    “I’d actually like to buy this if I can.” Patrick handed him the DVD.
    The owner looked at the case. “This is a classic. Surprised we still have it.” He opened the case. “It’s got a few scratches. I’ll let you have it for ten even.”
    “Done,” Patrick said. He handed the man a ten.
    “It’s a shame about her and Chazz Jackson, huh?” the owner said.
    “Yeah.” No it isn’t! I want so badly to tell this guy, this stranger, that I am talking to Lauren Short and that I’m about to go home to talk to her all night . . . sort of.
    “Funny how life sometimes happens,” the owner said. “One second you have it all, and the next second you don’t.”
    “Right.” And because Lauren lost it all, she found me.
    That doesn’t sound right.
    “She’ll land on her feet, though,” the owner said. “She’s an old pro. I can’t