The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky

make fun of me, Leah.”
    â€œI’m not,” I said, though I guess I was. I drank another sip of beer. Soon, I would need another one. “Anyway, I don’t want the car. Judy died in it, and I got a bad feeling just sitting in it, but the mechanic says he can sell it for me.”
    â€œWe could use the money.”
    I regretted telling Hans about the car, about the possibility of selling it. This was something Judy had left me, but if the money from the car went into our joint account, it would be absorbed, get spent on rent and food and beer. It would not be mine. Judy had left the car to me. I had not told him about the money. I did not know, still, how much money. If that part was real.
    â€œI wrote some new scenes today,” Hans said. “And a review for the website. I was wondering if you could read them.”
    I closed my eyes, nodding. The last thing I wanted to do was go over new work by Hans. Our writing process was different. I didn’t want a reader until I was far along in a project, done with a draft. Hans wanted constant eyes and ears.
    â€œI can read it tomorrow,” I said.
    â€œI am really jazzed about these pages,” Hans said. “I think I was feeling shitty about your leaving, so I tried to figure out what would make me feel better. And that was writing. Do you think you can read the scenes tonight? I’m excited about them. What else do you have to do?”
    Somehow, without noticing, I had wandered into Diego’s living room. I looked at the gleaming candlestick holders on Diego’s mantelpiece. They were ostentatious. I could imaginean attractive salesgirl, like the one in Macy’s, urging him to by them.
    â€œI’ll read it tomorrow,” I said.
    â€œI emailed you the file hours ago.”
    I had not checked my email all day, which was unlike me. At home, I spent too much of my day sitting in front of a computer. “I haven’t checked my email,” I said. Email at least would be better than talking to Hans. “I’ll do it now.”
    â€œI love you,” Hans told me.
    I nodded.
    The silence was long. It was heavy.
    â€œI love you, too,” I said.
    I hung up the phone.
    I blamed Judy for this constant state of irritation I felt toward Hans. My unwillingness to talk to him, to think about him even. The repugnance I felt. I had not felt this way until her death.
    â€œThat is total bullshit,” Judy said. “Maybe it has something to do with his choking you. How about that?”
    Just like that, tears welled in my eyes. I was crying again. So what? Were there rules against that? I touched my neck, gently caressed the soft skin. It wasn’t bruised. No imprint. Lea, she had kissed me there. Judy knew. I thought that nobody knew. I did not want anybody to know.
    â€œI am giving you a road map,” Judy said. “I am giving you a car and an adventure. You do this. You do it for me and you do it for yourself.”
    I nodded. Maybe I was ready to listen to Judy. I did not think so.
    Back when I was in grad school, I would question all the decisions I made: Should I take this class? Eat fish for dinner? Rent this apartment? I knew without asking what Judy would think and hearing her voice had been helpful. But once I stopped returning her emails, after I had gotten married, her voice went away, too. It occurred to me that she had been helpful.
    A road map .
    I let the words sink in.
    I wandered Diego’s apartment. I found the whiskey in a liquor cabinet stocked as if for a party. I did not want to finish my beer. It was not what I wanted. I poured a drink into a nice heavy glass and got two perfect ice cubes from the ice maker. I took half of a hydrocodone I found in his medicine cabinet. This would be the definition of a perfect night for Hans and me. A drink, a pain pill, take-in sushi, an episode of Six Feet Under . For Hans, this perfect night would end with sex, but so many times, I would pass