walking was almost impossible. My limbs felt heavy one minute, and then I would take a step forward and my bones would turn to dust. My stomach was a swirling pit of water, and I worried that I might have to go straight to the bathroom.
Holly was dressed in a simple gauzy peasant shirt that was sheer enough for me to see the outline of the white camisole underneath. She wore a pair of denim shorts, cut high on her leg, and no shoes. Her toenails were painted purple.
The living room had wooden floors with small oriental rugs placed here and there. There was no television. There was a small stereo playing a tape of chants in a language I imagined was Indian or Chinese or something. A candle—the source of the lavender smell—flickered on a wooden table in the corner. There were some pillows on the floor, and a futon. "This is a nice place," I said.
"We're—I mean, I'm—just renting," she said. "Do you want a drink?"
"Sure, anything is fine," I said.
I sat on the futon while she went into the kitchen.
She came back a few minutes later with a small tea set on a wooden tray.
"I haven't had company in a while," she said. "This is nice."
She knelt on a small bench in front of me and poured the tea.
"It's peppermint," she said, handing me a small cup with no handles. "I think peppermint has a nice cooling effect in the summer."
I'd never been in a room like that in my life. I'd never seen someone kneeling on a bench like that. I'd never drunk peppermint tea.
"Mmm," I said, trying to hide the fact that I burned the shit out of my tongue. "Mmm."
We sipped our tea. I started to feel like it was a mistake to come and see her. What could she possibly have to say to me? And what did I have to say to her? Just as I was imagining a way to leave without hurting her feelings, Holly took the lead.
"How long have you been a lifeguard?" she said.
"Not long," I said. "A few weeks and then I quit."
"Because of Manny?" she said.
I nodded. I tried to look desolate. She leaped up from the bench like she had a great idea. She walked over to a small writing desk in the corner and started to shuffle papers.
"My parents came up here for the funeral," she said. "They're from Florida. My father retired early from Ford. They'd like me to move back down there."
"Would that be good?" I said.
"They drive me crazy," she said. "I grew up around here, you know. I came back here because my friend Annie opened a salon and said I could have a workspace there."
"Yeah, it's nice," I said.
"Michael," she said. "No, it's not nice. It's depressing. I can't think of anything more depressing than the Detroit area."
"I like it," I said.
"Where else have you been?"
"I went to Toronto once," I said. "And Ohio. Around there."
"You need to travel more," she said. "The world starts to feel small if you stay still for a long time."
"Tell me about it," I said.
She finished messing with the papers on the desk and started to stretch in the center of the room, like she was getting ready to run a race. She took deep breaths with each stretch. I could have watched her back arching, the rise and fall of her rib cage, all day long.
"How have you been doing?" I asked.
"Great," she said. "I mean, I think I am handling things remarkably well."
"You look good," I said.
"God, let me tell you the most scary thing, Michael," she said. I noticed she was saying my first name a lot, which gave everything she said an intense and urgent edge. "Some days I wake up and I think, well, I guess now I don't have to work so hard. I guess now I don't have to hold a steady job, have this house to live in, stay in one place, and think about school systems."
I just nodded.
"I hate this music," she said. "I mean, it's fine, but I've been sick of it lately. Chimes and sitars. I've been more into Dylan lately. And Fleetwood Mac.
Songs in the Key of Lifeby
Stevie Wonder. He's great. Do you know how great he is?"
I said I agreed, though I didn't know exactly which album she was
Holly was dressed in a simple gauzy peasant shirt that was sheer enough for me to see the outline of the white camisole underneath. She wore a pair of denim shorts, cut high on her leg, and no shoes. Her toenails were painted purple.
The living room had wooden floors with small oriental rugs placed here and there. There was no television. There was a small stereo playing a tape of chants in a language I imagined was Indian or Chinese or something. A candle—the source of the lavender smell—flickered on a wooden table in the corner. There were some pillows on the floor, and a futon. "This is a nice place," I said.
"We're—I mean, I'm—just renting," she said. "Do you want a drink?"
"Sure, anything is fine," I said.
I sat on the futon while she went into the kitchen.
She came back a few minutes later with a small tea set on a wooden tray.
"I haven't had company in a while," she said. "This is nice."
She knelt on a small bench in front of me and poured the tea.
"It's peppermint," she said, handing me a small cup with no handles. "I think peppermint has a nice cooling effect in the summer."
I'd never been in a room like that in my life. I'd never seen someone kneeling on a bench like that. I'd never drunk peppermint tea.
"Mmm," I said, trying to hide the fact that I burned the shit out of my tongue. "Mmm."
We sipped our tea. I started to feel like it was a mistake to come and see her. What could she possibly have to say to me? And what did I have to say to her? Just as I was imagining a way to leave without hurting her feelings, Holly took the lead.
"How long have you been a lifeguard?" she said.
"Not long," I said. "A few weeks and then I quit."
"Because of Manny?" she said.
I nodded. I tried to look desolate. She leaped up from the bench like she had a great idea. She walked over to a small writing desk in the corner and started to shuffle papers.
"My parents came up here for the funeral," she said. "They're from Florida. My father retired early from Ford. They'd like me to move back down there."
"Would that be good?" I said.
"They drive me crazy," she said. "I grew up around here, you know. I came back here because my friend Annie opened a salon and said I could have a workspace there."
"Yeah, it's nice," I said.
"Michael," she said. "No, it's not nice. It's depressing. I can't think of anything more depressing than the Detroit area."
"I like it," I said.
"Where else have you been?"
"I went to Toronto once," I said. "And Ohio. Around there."
"You need to travel more," she said. "The world starts to feel small if you stay still for a long time."
"Tell me about it," I said.
She finished messing with the papers on the desk and started to stretch in the center of the room, like she was getting ready to run a race. She took deep breaths with each stretch. I could have watched her back arching, the rise and fall of her rib cage, all day long.
"How have you been doing?" I asked.
"Great," she said. "I mean, I think I am handling things remarkably well."
"You look good," I said.
"God, let me tell you the most scary thing, Michael," she said. I noticed she was saying my first name a lot, which gave everything she said an intense and urgent edge. "Some days I wake up and I think, well, I guess now I don't have to work so hard. I guess now I don't have to hold a steady job, have this house to live in, stay in one place, and think about school systems."
I just nodded.
"I hate this music," she said. "I mean, it's fine, but I've been sick of it lately. Chimes and sitars. I've been more into Dylan lately. And Fleetwood Mac.
Songs in the Key of Lifeby
Stevie Wonder. He's great. Do you know how great he is?"
I said I agreed, though I didn't know exactly which album she was
Similar Books
