I checked my phone, realized he didn’t even have my number and stared out the sliding glass door. There was no smell or sign of anyone smoking. I wondered if standing on the balcony was too obvious. I tried it anyway. I stared out onto the street. Stared into the windows across from me into the apartments. At the flat screen TVs with loud voices and wild gesticulating arms on screen. I could see right through the crochet and wondered what the purpose was, if it was purely decorative or if they thought it broke up the action inside. I contemplated purchasing curtains of my own. I took a Virginia Slim (I wasn’t sure which one) that I had hidden behind the ficus tree and lit it. Trying to make a light, a signal that I was there, and waiting, but no one came. The street was empty of cars. There were no sounds coming from the Twin Palms. The party was at The Calcutta on the corner tonight. Someone was puking on the lawn. New-to-the-neighborhood kids were having a house party, red cup and blue cup type kids. I saw the crochet move to the side. I listened to the retching and went back inside. I would have to find a way to sleep. It was already 2 a.m.
When I went to lie down the room was spinning. I had gone back and finished the bottle in a hurry, brushed my teeth again, but I could still smell the stink. If he came, he’d smell it. But then, maybe he wouldn’t be able to smell my breath over his. I felt it was a safe choice at the moment. Tonight the orange lights coming from the streetlights were making me restless. I bit every nail off of every finger. I chipped the red paint away. Red. Who was I fooling?
The front door buzzed.
I had just fallen asleep. My alarm clock said 4:15 a.m. and I didn’t hear any singing. I didn’t move. It buzzed again.
And again.
I stared at my hands. The chips in the paint looked even more garish in the orange light. I got up quickly. The Berber carpet in my apartment kept my footsteps silent and there was a gentle tapping on the door. I looked through the peephole. He was standing there, all in black. Shirt opened at two buttons, chest hair spilling out. He was combing his hair back. Trying to look presentable. I cupped my hand to my mouth and blew. It was still a little sweet, but morning breath had begun to set in. My mouth was dry. I tried to swallow, produce some saliva but it just wasn’t coming. He looked toward me, at the door. It was impossible to see me as I watched him put his head down.
I could open the door and he could know it would always be okay to come to me in the middle of the night like I was his mistress, a girl to keep away. Or I could leave the door closed, go lie down, go to sleep, hope he would come back to apologize in the morning or another day or one day soon. Or never. He didn’t owe me anything. He didn’t even know who I was. He could stop coming to my door. He could park on another street. Another block. Somewhere where he would never have to see me again, pass me again.
~ ~ ~
I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR. BUT NOT THE heavy mesh screen door. I stared at him through the perforations and waited. He didn’t speak or try and smile.
“Let me in, Anka.”
“It’s 4 a.m.”
“We never said when…” He gave a little smirk.
“I thought dinner.”
“We can eat.”
“This is the time men come over to fuck you.”
I looked at him. Wanting a severe reaction. He was too tired to argue. He just backed away from the door.
“Maybe tomorrow then,” he said.
He walked away from the door and lit a cigarette. Got into his car and pulled out onto Fairfax, away from me. I watched him make every step. Watched how he lit his cigarette. Head down low, hand cupped tight, one-two-three.
He seemed to have a limp. His left foot dragging in time. I watched him carefully and noted that I had never seen that limp before. What if he had been hurt? What if he needed to be consoled? I had turned him away. I had lost my chance to console. But I hadn’t prepared for consoling.
I had cleaned my bedroom. Vacuumed, picked up scraps from the floor, compressed my clothing into my closet and dusted the top rim of the headboard, just in case. I walked back into my bedroom and tripped over my shoes. I fell to the ground, face pressed against my new bra. I lay there a while. Poked at the cup, felt it bounce back. I contemplated sleeping on the floor next to it. My carpet was clean now, except for my dinner outfit that I was lying on top of. I decided I might still be a little drunk and crawled back into my bed. I would just wait until tomorrow. He was hurt, that was why he didn’t come when he was supposed to. Maybe he was in a fight. I didn’t even let him say anything. I just attacked. I would have to work on that — being more considerate. More sensitive. I must have still been drunk to be convincing myself of such things. A 4 a.m. Girl. That was the kind of girl he wanted me to be.
~ ~ ~
I WOKE UP LATE. I DIDN’T HAVE ANYWHERE TO go anyway. My head hurt and I had forgotten to wash my face. My eyes hurt from the caked on makeup and my skin felt slick. I went to the bathroom and took a look at myself. I thanked God that I hadn’t let Lev in. I wiped the soot caked around my eye and looked at my nails. Cracked polish, chipped like skylines and worn down to nubs. They hurt and were inflamed. I poured hydrogen peroxide over each finger. They sizzled and bubbled. I didn’t want to get an infection. My mouth was still dry, soft and fuzzy, I brushed and washed and even then my eyes were still bloodshot. There was still black residue in and around my eyes. I washed again.
And then I finally gave up.
I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony.
My tree was gone. Someone had stolen my tree. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Still gone. What time was it anyway? I walked back inside the house. The microwave said 2. Sometime between the hours of 4 a.m. and 2 p.m. someone had climbed over the concrete divider and picked up a 30-pound tree and had run away with it. Or walked. How could the Borises in my building allow this to happen? I stared out across the street. None of the crochet curtains were moving. It was already hot and I had missed half the day. My balcony was now bare and I had no cover from the people walking back and forth. Sweeping, walking, dogs shitting. I stared out toward The Calcutta. There were red and blue cups littering the front yard. There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the top railing. I shook my head and sat down. I stared down to my cigarette-hiding place and saw that they were gone too.
“Fuck.”
“What happened?” My neighbor with the homemade haircut was leaning into my balcony from his mother’s balcony. Into my space.
“Someone stole my tree.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I kicked at the dead leaves, they had left those. They or he. I didn’t know if it was a one-man job or two. A group of kids from the hostel walked by. Maybe one of them did it. I was standing right there and they didn’t even try to look at me. I shook my head and walked back inside. That tree cost me 46 dollars. I watered it every other day. I watched new buds grow. I slowed down my watering when I saw the leaves turning yellow. That tree was my tree. I had cultivated it.
~ ~ ~
I HAD SCRAPED TOGETHER ENOUGH FOR A generic brand of cigarettes. Misty Ultra Lights. There was a pastel rainbow on the cover and besides that the package was mostly dull, white, and drab. The thin plastic covering the exterior the only point of excitement. The rainbow made the cigarettes look dated. I wondered how old they were. I was also eating a slim, long sausage. A kabanos. I didn’t care who saw me. The sausage was dry because I had left it unwrapped in the refrigerator and it tasted like jerky. I had a jar of horseradish next to me and I would dip the sausage into the jar and pull out a clump at the tip and eat it. That mixed with the cigarette I was furiously inhaling made my breath hot and sour. I leaned back in my chair and heard a creak and snap. The crack at the bottom of the chair was getting worse and I didn’t care. I snuffed out the Misty and started another one. Stared at the round, empty circle on the concrete and contemplated my next move.