Windy Gap-2
“Hello Richard,” she said quietly. “Can I come in?”
I was too much in a daze to protest. She stepped past me carefully, carrying a large, heavy bag. Stopping in the middle of the living room, she put it down and looked around. “Nice place.”
“It’s hateful,” I said, closing the door and heading to the kitchenette. I tossed my frozen meals on the counter as loudly as possible.
“It’s like our apartment when we were at school,” she said, pacing about the living room.
I didn’t respond. I had no interest in chit-chat, and I couldn’t bear to look at her. I found a knife that wasn’t too dirty and tore at one of the frozen food boxes. “You’re just in time to share my gourmet meal,” I said as the knife slipped in my hand and sliced through my thumb. Cursing, I stuck the thumb in my mouth to staunch the bleeding, then put it under the tap.
“Are you all right?” Sharon asked, rushing into the kitchen.
“Does it matter?” I asked, pushing her away. “I can manage.”
“I can see that,” she said, her voice suddenly cold.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked, the blood still running down my thumb.
“Oh never mind,” she said, returning to the living room.
I turned off the water and wrapped my thumb in a make-shift bandage. “Sharon,” I said, as calmly as I could. “What do you want?”
“Jesus!” she said. “Why do you think I have to want something?”
I couldn’t resist a juvenile answer. “I suggest you ask your lawyer.”
She stepped to the bag she’d brought with her, tearing it open. “I thought you might be lonely, so I brought you this,” she said, revealing a table-top TV.
“Thank you,” I said. “I seem to remember I paid for it.”
She looked at me in complete disgust. “Fuck you,” she muttered, heading out the door.
The echo from the door slam was already dying before I realized I couldn’t say “I’m sorry,” or “thanks.” My thumb was beginning to throb badly, and I felt like kicking myself. I knew Sharon and I were through. But I also realized I was making it worse. She’d come with the best intentions—just like Pete—and I was looking for ways to piss on them. I then realized what it was that Pete had said that morning that bothered me. “You look the way I feel,” he’d said—burned out, self-pitying, a grey husk.
The evening birds were beginning to chirp, and a hot desert wind was billowing the curtains. I looked out the window to catch the final rays of the setting sun. Then I looked at the TV and wondered what might be on. I plugged it in, adjusted the old-fashioned antenna and flipped through the stations. There was nothing to watch, but even the scratch of staticky voices, canned laughter and shrill pitches from the TV’s tiny speaker seemed a godsend. I wasn’t alone any longer, and I didn’t want to be.
I decided to thank Pete in person and waited until I heard activity in his apartment. When he answered the door, I noticed immediately that he still looked a little tired and that even fully dressed his clothes seemed too baggy to be just fashionable. Which didn’t prevent him from smiling broadly when he saw me. “Hope I’m not making too much noise,” he said playfully.
“I just wanted to thank you for the pillow,” I said.
He winked, stepped aside and tilted his head to invite me into his apartment. In size and layout it was a virtual duplicate of my own, but that was where the similarities ended. The furniture was heavy, and carved with ornate details, but with no consistent style—some Victorian here, a little Art Deco there, the kind of thing that I knew enough from antiquing with Sharon to recognize, if not like. Both the curtains and the upholstery were made of dense fabric in keeping with the heavy furniture and like it in glaring contrast with the cheap architecture. Numerous objects, some functional, some decorative, some simply bizarre, were dispersed around the room, making it look oddly unfinished. It was more than the clash between the antiques and the modern architecture. It was as if significant pieces were missing.
“Sorry for the mess,” Pete said, then catching himself, he laughed. “Why do people always say that?” he asked. “I mean, I know the place looks a little undone, but it isn’t a mess.”
Taken off-guard, I struggled to respond. “No,” I said. “No, it’s very elegant.”
He laughed again. “That’s a word for it!” Gesturing for me to sit down, he took a seat opposite. “You don’t have to pretend to like it. Including the pillow.”
“No, I do,” I lied.
He kept smiling. “Well, I hoped you would, even if you don’t. I saw it passing one of the antique dealers on Melrose I used to haunt, and I thought it was ‘you.’ Not that I know you of course, so maybe it was my idea of ‘you.’ Anyway, I thought since I liked it so much, it would mean more if I gave it to you. Sort of proof of my apology.”
“I guess I see what you mean,” I said, trying to follow his logic.
“That’s why the place is so bare,” he said. “I feel like I want to give away my best things.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I said, glad to have something to say.
His smile disappeared briefly as he coughed a little. He tilted his head again, then muttered. “No, it’s not generosity.” Before I could respond, he smiled again and said “Anyway, I hope you truly do like it. It’s nice of you to pretend anyway.”
“It was certainly a very neighborly thing,” I said trying to participate in the conversation a bit more actively. “And very generous even if you don’t think so.”
He stood up. “Want a drink?” he asked, stepping toward a liquor cabinet.
“No, thanks, I don’t drink.”
“Now there’s a mistake,” he joked. “I hope you’re not a health freak!”
“That’s one thing I’ve never been accused of,” I said.
He poured himself some sherry. “That’s a relief. You’d make me feel inferior. Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass in salute before sipping his drink.
“No, the healthiest thing I ever do is the occasional hike,” I said. “Haven’t even done that in months.”
“Well you should!” Pete said, returning to his chair. “Nice to get out of the city once in a while.”
“Oh, do you hike too?” I asked.
“Not in a big way,” he said, leaning back. “But I do like to get away now and then,” he said. “Believe it or not, I’m a country boy.”
“Me too!” I said, surprised at the idea of this guy who seemed almost the image of city living being from the country. “There are times when I feel like I should go back.”
“No need for desperate measures!”
“Don’t worry, it’s not in the cards anytime soon.”
“But maybe a short return?” he said, sipping his sherry. “Not too far or too long, just enough to fool yourself.”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “It would be a nice change,” I said thinking of Sharon and the everyday crap that working in an office inevitably entails.
“Hey, we could do it together!” Pete said, with a big smile.
It was the smile that convinced me.
“Hello Richard,” she said quietly. “Can I come in?”
I was too much in a daze to protest. She stepped past me carefully, carrying a large, heavy bag. Stopping in the middle of the living room, she put it down and looked around. “Nice place.”
“It’s hateful,” I said, closing the door and heading to the kitchenette. I tossed my frozen meals on the counter as loudly as possible.
“It’s like our apartment when we were at school,” she said, pacing about the living room.
I didn’t respond. I had no interest in chit-chat, and I couldn’t bear to look at her. I found a knife that wasn’t too dirty and tore at one of the frozen food boxes. “You’re just in time to share my gourmet meal,” I said as the knife slipped in my hand and sliced through my thumb. Cursing, I stuck the thumb in my mouth to staunch the bleeding, then put it under the tap.
“Are you all right?” Sharon asked, rushing into the kitchen.
“Does it matter?” I asked, pushing her away. “I can manage.”
“I can see that,” she said, her voice suddenly cold.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked, the blood still running down my thumb.
“Oh never mind,” she said, returning to the living room.
I turned off the water and wrapped my thumb in a make-shift bandage. “Sharon,” I said, as calmly as I could. “What do you want?”
“Jesus!” she said. “Why do you think I have to want something?”
I couldn’t resist a juvenile answer. “I suggest you ask your lawyer.”
She stepped to the bag she’d brought with her, tearing it open. “I thought you might be lonely, so I brought you this,” she said, revealing a table-top TV.
“Thank you,” I said. “I seem to remember I paid for it.”
She looked at me in complete disgust. “Fuck you,” she muttered, heading out the door.
The echo from the door slam was already dying before I realized I couldn’t say “I’m sorry,” or “thanks.” My thumb was beginning to throb badly, and I felt like kicking myself. I knew Sharon and I were through. But I also realized I was making it worse. She’d come with the best intentions—just like Pete—and I was looking for ways to piss on them. I then realized what it was that Pete had said that morning that bothered me. “You look the way I feel,” he’d said—burned out, self-pitying, a grey husk.
The evening birds were beginning to chirp, and a hot desert wind was billowing the curtains. I looked out the window to catch the final rays of the setting sun. Then I looked at the TV and wondered what might be on. I plugged it in, adjusted the old-fashioned antenna and flipped through the stations. There was nothing to watch, but even the scratch of staticky voices, canned laughter and shrill pitches from the TV’s tiny speaker seemed a godsend. I wasn’t alone any longer, and I didn’t want to be.
I decided to thank Pete in person and waited until I heard activity in his apartment. When he answered the door, I noticed immediately that he still looked a little tired and that even fully dressed his clothes seemed too baggy to be just fashionable. Which didn’t prevent him from smiling broadly when he saw me. “Hope I’m not making too much noise,” he said playfully.
“I just wanted to thank you for the pillow,” I said.
He winked, stepped aside and tilted his head to invite me into his apartment. In size and layout it was a virtual duplicate of my own, but that was where the similarities ended. The furniture was heavy, and carved with ornate details, but with no consistent style—some Victorian here, a little Art Deco there, the kind of thing that I knew enough from antiquing with Sharon to recognize, if not like. Both the curtains and the upholstery were made of dense fabric in keeping with the heavy furniture and like it in glaring contrast with the cheap architecture. Numerous objects, some functional, some decorative, some simply bizarre, were dispersed around the room, making it look oddly unfinished. It was more than the clash between the antiques and the modern architecture. It was as if significant pieces were missing.
“Sorry for the mess,” Pete said, then catching himself, he laughed. “Why do people always say that?” he asked. “I mean, I know the place looks a little undone, but it isn’t a mess.”
Taken off-guard, I struggled to respond. “No,” I said. “No, it’s very elegant.”
He laughed again. “That’s a word for it!” Gesturing for me to sit down, he took a seat opposite. “You don’t have to pretend to like it. Including the pillow.”
“No, I do,” I lied.
He kept smiling. “Well, I hoped you would, even if you don’t. I saw it passing one of the antique dealers on Melrose I used to haunt, and I thought it was ‘you.’ Not that I know you of course, so maybe it was my idea of ‘you.’ Anyway, I thought since I liked it so much, it would mean more if I gave it to you. Sort of proof of my apology.”
“I guess I see what you mean,” I said, trying to follow his logic.
“That’s why the place is so bare,” he said. “I feel like I want to give away my best things.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I said, glad to have something to say.
His smile disappeared briefly as he coughed a little. He tilted his head again, then muttered. “No, it’s not generosity.” Before I could respond, he smiled again and said “Anyway, I hope you truly do like it. It’s nice of you to pretend anyway.”
“It was certainly a very neighborly thing,” I said trying to participate in the conversation a bit more actively. “And very generous even if you don’t think so.”
He stood up. “Want a drink?” he asked, stepping toward a liquor cabinet.
“No, thanks, I don’t drink.”
“Now there’s a mistake,” he joked. “I hope you’re not a health freak!”
“That’s one thing I’ve never been accused of,” I said.
He poured himself some sherry. “That’s a relief. You’d make me feel inferior. Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass in salute before sipping his drink.
“No, the healthiest thing I ever do is the occasional hike,” I said. “Haven’t even done that in months.”
“Well you should!” Pete said, returning to his chair. “Nice to get out of the city once in a while.”
“Oh, do you hike too?” I asked.
“Not in a big way,” he said, leaning back. “But I do like to get away now and then,” he said. “Believe it or not, I’m a country boy.”
“Me too!” I said, surprised at the idea of this guy who seemed almost the image of city living being from the country. “There are times when I feel like I should go back.”
“No need for desperate measures!”
“Don’t worry, it’s not in the cards anytime soon.”
“But maybe a short return?” he said, sipping his sherry. “Not too far or too long, just enough to fool yourself.”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “It would be a nice change,” I said thinking of Sharon and the everyday crap that working in an office inevitably entails.
“Hey, we could do it together!” Pete said, with a big smile.
It was the smile that convinced me.