I might be overreacting. He didn’t throw the glass at me. He threw it at the wall. Is that different?
Women have girlfriends for this very reason: to bounce their irrationalities off each other. I long for Lydia, the way we used to be. Nonjudgmental and totally accepting. She once slept with two different men in the same night, and when she’d confessed it, the next day, lying in our side-by-side beds, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the smoky haze of our bedroom, I remember sitting straight up in bed, my mouth hanging open. Her choices were not my choices, and all I’d ever said was, Who was better? And we howled with laughter. As far as I could tell, she never stopped to question herself when she passed judgment on me. It hardly seemed fair.
When we’d met, I’d been staying at a homeless shelter, wearing third-and fourthhand suits to job interviews that I was neither qualified for nor eligible to work, having not had a valid identification, a college education, or a permanent address. I wandered, exhausted, into La Fleur d’Elise and sat helplessly on a chair, clutching the help wanted ads from the Treasure Hunt.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” The girl had snapped her gum in my direction. “Also your clothes look like shit. When did you last go shopping? Nineteen ninety-two?”
“Do you always greet people this way?” I sat up straight, studying her pink-and-purple-tipped hair, the large curling tattoo on her wispy upper arm, her bloodred lipstick.
“Most of the time. Do you always wear suits to interview for custodial positions?”
“Custodial? I thought it said florist assistant.”
“You’re basically pushing a broom, sister. Do you think you can handle that?” She studied the paper in front of her over a pair of electric blue glasses. I realized, with a start, that the lenses were fake, and suppressed a smile. I nodded and she handed me a broom.
“That’s it? I’m hired?”
She snatched the broom out of my reach. “Unless you don’t want the job . . . ”
“I want it.”
“Good. Now, what are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight?” I blinked at her, wide-eyed. The shelter had a curfew.
“Yes. Tonight. You need to see the inside of a mall, stat.”
“There are malls in Manhattan?”
“There are, but we’re going to Joisey.” She shrugged. “I live in Hoboken. There are malls there. You can stay with me.”
“You just met me.” I gave her a slitted-eye stare. A few months distanced from all that had happened in San Francisco, I was unaccustomed to common courtesy, downright wary of kindness.
“Call me crazy. Or nice. Or lonely.” She shrugged and unwrapped a Dum Dum. She stuck out her hand, a ring on every finger. “I’m Lydia.”
“Are you new to the city?” I asked her, thinking of her or lonely.
She furrowed her eyebrows. “No. But everyone is lonely. Right?”
She was arrestingly vulnerable, even while she was cutting you. You could just see people blink, unsure if she was putting them on. She linked her arm through mine. “I have a feeling about you.”
I miss her. I miss her laughter, her unique bitchy-nice. I miss having a friend.
? ? ?
In the coffee shop, I wait for Cash, restless and fidgety. With a start, I realize then that I didn’t get my call from Henry at nine o’clock. There had been no envelope of cash on the counter this morning, no note. No I’m sorry, nothing. I wonder if he’s called the credit card company. These little money envelopes feel like a leash that he can take away at any time and I’m left powerless. My face flushes at the thought. What would I have thought of an allowance five years ago? It would have been an extravagance.
I text Henry’s cell. Are you okay? I’m sorry about our fight. Love you. I avoid saying I’m sorry for any specific thing, because I’m not sure that I am. But I struggle with being ignored. Everyone has fights, this I know. But our relationship feels cracked down the middle.
Cash slides into the seat across from me with two paper cups and a tray of sandwiches and I quickly tuck my phone into my purse, depressing the ringer down button.
“Can you ever pick a place with mugs, please?” He flashes me a grin and I make a face at him.
“Are you really too good for paper cups?” I peel off the plastic lid and let the curling steam escape.
“Hey, just because I scrape to make rent doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.” He gently pushes a turkey sandwich in my direction.
I smile and busy myself spreading mustard on the roll. “Are you still up for helping me? Tomorrow?”