She’s soaked. Her stretched-out curls are matted to her long neck and face. She seems disoriented, looking down at the floor, holding a bag in either hand. Finally, she looks up with a start, sees me, and tries to smile. The little forced grin doesn’t last for long. From across the room and because of the rain I can’t tell, but it looks like she’s been crying, as recently as the elevator ride up.
She puts both bags in one hand and drops her keys onto the floor. “You were right,” she chirps, still trying to cover the sadness. She looks over at the spread on the table for some cheer, but I’ve disappointed her there. She exhales, lets her shoulders drop, then fills herself up again. Such a beautiful woman. The cold rain has washed all the red from her cheeks, and those strange brown freckles twinkle on her. For a moment I forget that she’s studying me, too.
I gesture, dumbly, back through the doorway. She remembers the bags, bounces forward as though to jump-start a lighter mood in herself. She sets one bag on the table, stops, and seems to be locked there for a moment. She empties her pockets — some paper scraps, bills and change, then shakes her head like a child responding to a hurtful question.
“I hate myself when I do this”—she remembers me, looks up, and tries to spin it as a joke. “I’m so unorganized.”
She walks to the counter in a way I didn’t think she could — heavily, tired — takes the open bottle of wine and loops her fingers through two mug handles.
“You should dry off.”
“Thanks, I will.” She wrinkles her brow and nods as though my statement requires deeper consideration. And when her face goes soft again, I wonder when was the last time someone considered her at all. It makes me back up into the bedroom. She follows, sad-faced again. But as she comes nearer, she starts trying to regroup. “In my new bathroom.” She sets the bag down and I smell garlic, roasted meat, maybe even french fries. She circles the bag then drops down cross-legged beside it. She starts taking things out, moving faster, regaining that earlier energy. She even starts to smile.
“I got this from my restaurant.” She spreads some napkins on the floor and dumps out a pile of shoestrings. “I love free food.”
“You own a restaurant?” I mumble, trying to sound interested — trying not to look too closely at her or what she’s doing.
“I bartend at a restaurant.” She seems to have forgotten how sad and wet she is and snorts at my expense. “You think I own something?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh,” she waves a fry at me but concentrates on pouring two cups of wine. “It’s okay, honey. I don’t even know if I’d want to own one. There’s something to be said about counting your cash and leaving,” she rolls her eyes up at me. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Here’s to living under the radar.” She raises a mug and drinks, then pats the floor beside the other cup. “You have to eat some of this — so sit.” She keeps patting the floor until I do, with my back against the couch. She shrugs, eats the fry, hums something to herself, rolls her eyes back up to me, shaking her head with a widening grin. She stops suddenly.
“What’s that smell?”
“Primer.” She pinches her face as though to question. I jerk my head at the bathroom and raise my pitch to help clarify. “Primer.”
She frowns strangely, stands, and skates to the bathroom, wiping her hands. I stand, too. She enters. “Oh, my god!” she sticks her head out, then moves her whole body to the opening. “Where? How?”
“I stole it.”
She starts to turn in the doorway — looking at my work, looking at me — examining and reexamining as though I’d gutted and refurbished the whole room. “Wow,” she mouths and then comes into the bedroom, toward me, more like a glide than a walk. She stops a few feet away.
“You’re so bad — you’re awesome. I would’ve been so chickenshit to do that. Beth, she’s great, but you know what, fuck her. I’ve dumped so much money into her place — making it better.”
“This is hers?”
“Yeah, I’m a renter. Even if I could afford it, I probably couldn’t get a place — I’m on the lam. My ex, this was his studio, he wasn’t supposed to live here, but he did. Beth hated him, but we got along. I think she inherited the building from her father. Everything he did was illegal — taxes, parking tickets. So when he left, Beth said I could stay. I’ve been here — shit — seven years.” She looks back into the bathroom. “Oh, my god.” She shakes her head slowly. “Thank you.” She reaches out, almost touches my arm. But she does stare at me, which forces me to look down, shuffle, and inch back to the couch. She looks down at my fingers—for the umpteenth time. “I’ve turned you into a criminal.” She turns her voice down. “Your wife won’t like that much.”
“Well,” I stutter, speaking before any thought can intervene.
“Don’t — it’s okay. I didn’t mean anything. You still together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kids?”
“Three.”
“Pictures?” she brightens.
“No.”
“I’ll bet they’re beautiful.”
I nod.
“It must be hard.”
“You should change.” I hit that note again, but this time it sounds off-key. It makes her neck bend awkwardly to the side. After it fades, she straightens and raises both palms to me.
“I’m sorry.” She thumbs into the bathroom. “I’m going to change.” She glides over to the stacked crates, pulls out some things, balls them up, and glides back, with one last quick look to see if I’ve been watching.
How does a man disappear—for a decade? From others, from self — nomadic, hand to mouth, episodic in achievement. Never went to law school. No real estate license. What happened? You go to sleep young and somewhat stupid and wake up to new noises — the clock — new complaints, things that didn’t hold any sway before. From the bathroom she lets out a semiprivate “Wow,” turns on the tub, but stops it quickly. I can hear the sheets of ply creak under her as she shifts her weight — leaning, then sliding her feet along behind. She inspects the medicine cabinet, opens and closes it with a soft click and a dull thud. She looks in the mirror, scrutinizes her freckles, the beginnings of her age lines. The light is poor. She opens the door one more time and fills the cabinet with beauty products I hadn’t noticed were there.
I feel naked, so I rub my pants to make sure they’re really there. Laura saw me naked, I mouth. And then I reconsider Marco — that stern look he gave me after I chased away his mistress. I hadn’t connected the two — my nakedness and his near scowl. Laura had gotten into her car and dialed her husband on her cell phone while speeding away from my crime. What did she say? — “I saw him naked.” And each reading of the event, from the first onward is different — to her one thing, to him. . what did he see in his head, some porno-pass by me at his wife. No words, just naked flesh, a blatant, literal gesture. In my case sex has been demystified. Sex as a by-product of love, or anything else — I just always thought the need to explain it folly. That first time I lay next to Claire, she thought I was nervous, shy, or sweet. Perhaps I had been all those things. I was all those things—all the time. I knew that what we were about to do would never bring me closer to her. I just hoped that it wouldn’t push me farther away.
I’ve always thought that those who do mystify it, say that it is transformative in any way other than pregnancy or disease, were just horny, even a little cruel — masking want with imaginary emotions — and those who downplayed it, sad. But with her on the other side of the wall, I wonder if I’m damaged or just no damn good. Even so, damage is never an apt substitute for piety.