Cackle(28)

“I shouldn’t be surprised you have an indoor pool,” I say. The tension drains from my body, tension I didn’t even realize I was holding. My spine unkinks; my shoulders descend. I’m sitting here eating ridiculously delicious pancakes with my charming new friend, who owns a house with an indoor swimming pool. For all the wallowing I’ve done in the past few months, leading a one-woman self-pity parade, in this moment I feel nothing but lucky. “I love to swim.”

“I’ll get on it, then,” she says. “If I eat any more, I’ll feel sick. I know this and yet . . .”

She takes another bite.

We clean our plates.

“I’m going to be useless the rest of the day,” she says, standing.

We haven’t received a check, but at this point, I’d be surprised if Tom dared to approach with one. He seems terrified of Sophie. I guess some men from his generation would take issue with having to answer to a woman. With paying rent to a woman.

“When will I see you again, pet?”

“Whenever,” I say.

“Maybe Friday? I could come by with dinner?” she asks, holding the door open for me.

“Sure! Do you want my number?”

“Oh, I don’t have a mobile. Well, I have one, but I never use it. I think they’re dreadful. People walking around hunched over. I’d rather go back to the days of sending ravens. Surprisingly reliable.”

She’s an unconventional person, so I don’t find this particularly shocking. I have a hard time picturing her using an iPhone. Still, I’m not sure how she functions without one.

“Friday. Say six o’clock?”

“Sounds good.”

“Darling,” she says, giving me a hug, “thank you for a lovely weekend. I’ll see you soon.”

We walk off in opposite directions, and I make it a few steps before I’m lonely again. Nearly instant separation anxiety.

When I get home to my apartment, it’s smaller than I remember. Emptier. I take a shower, do laundry, water my already wilting plant, then prep lessons while eating stale tortilla chips and toast with the free sample of raspberry jam. By the time the sun sets, my loneliness scores against me like rough wool. I want to crawl out of my skin.

I call him.

I want to tell him about Sophie, about her enormous house with a library and ballroom and theater and swimming pool. About how I stayed there last night and in a tired wine fog convinced myself for a minute that it was haunted. I want to tell him about the pancakes, reminisce about the time we got stoned and went to the IHOP in Union Square. We experimented with all of the syrups. Blueberry, strawberry, regular, maple pecan. We tried different flavor combinations, recording our findings on the back of a napkin with a rogue crayon we picked up off of the floor. I want to ask him if he remembers. If he still thinks about it whenever he sees syrup, the way I do.

But he doesn’t answer.





A COINCIDENCE


I wake up early, having gone to bed at seven forty-five last night to avoid being conscious. I scroll on my phone for too long, looking at pictures of celebrities out in the wild. An Oscar-winning actress in the parking lot of a Los Angeles grocery store holding a case of trendy seltzer while wearing sweatpants and no makeup. A disheveled former action star in a grubby, sweat-stained T-shirt out walking his dog. A young heartthrob dining alfresco, shoving french fries into his mouth. Something about these photos brings me peace. They help get me out of bed.

I put on a white oxford shirt, navy slacks and loafers. I stare at myself in the mirror, and my celebrity-photo zen dissipates. I have to analyze my outfit, my makeup, my hair. I have to ask myself, What can they make fun of me for?

This process involves picking apart my appearance. It involves being mean to myself.

If they’re going to make fun of me for being birdlike, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t change my bone structure, my nose. I can’t change my long, scrawny neck. Maybe a scarf? Would they have something to say about that?

I leave my apartment sooner than necessary, just to get away from the mirror. I’d rather not arrive at school super early because I really don’t want to be there, so when I see the Good Mug, I pull into the nearest parking space.

I want a latte and to look at that handsome dad.

It’s a little pale green building with white shutters. It looks almost like a garden shed. When I walk in, a bell dings overhead. Oskar looks up from behind the counter and smiles politely. He’s got a rag over his shoulder. I bet he’s always got a rag over his shoulder. I bet he sleeps with it there.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Rose is sitting at a table near the door, reading and drinking coffee out of a comically large mug. She’s wearing thick-rimmed round glasses and a beret. “How’d you like the jam?”

“I had some yesterday,” I say. “It’s great. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Annie,” she says. “You’ll be back Saturday for more?”

“I will.”

“Good, good. Oskar, this girl’s a sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Rose,” I say. My entire face is blushing; I can feel it. My forehead. My chin. I can barely look at Oskar now. “Morning.”

“Morning, Annie. What can I get for you?”

“Um . . . can I have a large latte?”