"So you want to go on a date Friday night?" she asked.
Making a hairpin turn at top speed, I said, "With you?"
"With my friend Stacy at work."
"Not interested."
"She's really cute."
"Okay, ready? Watch this."
"Don't you want to meet somebody?"
"There you are…"
"I think you'll really like Stacy."
"… and here I come."
"Won't you just call her?"
"Ha! Lapped you!"
I continued playing the game for a while longer, but I was too distracted to focus on it and I kept crashing into things, exploding.
At one point I thought about Charlotte and Kenny. It was strange, but with everything that had happened this evening, I'd almost forgotten that I was being blackmailed. As I drove my car off a bridge in a fiery crash, I decided that they had given up. They must've realized I was broke and couldn't give them any money, or one of them would've contacted me by now.
When I glanced at the time on the cable box I was surprised to see that it was one-fifteen, meaning I'd been playing the video game for almost an hour. I decided that a good night's sleep would do me a lot of good, so I shut off the lights in the living room, foyer, and kitchen, and went down the hallway into the bedroom. I stripped to my underwear and realized I had to pee again. I dreaded having to return to the bathroom, but unless I wanted to pee in the kitchen sink or into a milk carton, I didn't have a choice. Finally I decided to just grow some balls and go in there.
As I urinated, I made a point of looking at the bathtub, and the strategy worked. I wasn't sad or horrified anymore I was just angry.
Rebecca was crazy there was no doubt about that but why'd she have to kill herself?
I got into bed and tried to fall asleep. After about an hour of stirring, I returned to the living room and resumed playing the stock-car racing game, getting into a four-car pileup on the first bend.
SATURDAY MORNING, I decided I needed to get the hell out of my apartment. Without shaving or showering, I put on my Rollerblades and glided along Eighty-first Street. I hadn't bladed in a long time; I felt awkward for a block or so, stumbling a few times, and then I got back into the groove. At a deli on Broadway, I bought a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee, and then I bladed into Riverside Park.
It was a perfect day the sun blazing, the sky deep blue and cloudless, and it felt like it would definitely hit eighty later on. I headed downtown along the promenade adjacent to the Hudson, going at a pretty good clip by the time I reached the West Fifties. I'd been planning to blade all the way to Battery Park, but I tired out near the Chelsea Piers and had to sit on a bench to rest.
A young woman with long, dark hair in a ponytail was sitting at the other end of the bench. She was wearing black yoga pants and a black sports bra and looked like she'd just finished a run.
I stared at her until she noticed me, and then I said, "Great day, huh?"
"Yeah," she said. She smiled politely and looked away again. She had a plain-looking face, but she was still very good-looking.
"So do you run here often?" I asked.
She turned back toward me suddenly, as if my lame pickup line had jolted her.
"Once in a while," she said.
"Me too." I squinted. "Have we met somewhere before?"
"I don't think so."
"You really look familiar. Have you been on TV?"
"No."
"Radio?"
"You recognize me from radio?"
I laughed, then said, "I know I've seen you somewhere. Do you live uptown?"
"No."
"Oh, well. We must've crossed paths somewhere. By the way, I'm David."
"Ellen," she said.
I held out my hand and we shook. I hadn't done anything to hide the fact that I was blatantly hitting on her, but she seemed amused anyway.
She acted like she wasn't used to guys trying to pick her up.
"So what do you do?" I asked. "Maybe that's how we know each other."
"I'm a speech therapist," she said.
"Really?" I said, trying to sound truly interested. "Where do you work?"
"St. Vincent's Hospital."
"Cool. I mean, that's a great hospital."
"What do you do?" she asked.
"I'm the associate editor of Manhattan Business magazine." It was strange, saying my new title aloud for the first time.
"I subscribe to Manhattan Business," she said, her voice brightening.
"Really?" I said. "I don't think I've ever met an actual subscriber.
Or at least not a subscriber who's a speech therapist."
She laughed at my attempt at a joke. We started talking about the magazine for a while, and then I asked her a few questions about her job. We were making a lot of eye contact and she seemed to have warmed up to me.
"Do you want to get something to eat?" I asked.
She hesitated, caught off guard.
"Come on, I know we're not dressed for anything fancy," I said. "We could just go to a diner or something and talk some more. What do you say?"
"I have to be home for something at noon," she said. "What time is it now?"
"Just after eleven," I said. "Come on, there must be something nearby."
"All right," she said.
She stood up and I was pleasantly surprised she had a much better body than I expected. She was thin and toned all over.
We exited the promenade, talking about Chelsea Piers. She said she used to be a member of the health club there, but had quit because it was too expensive. Then we started talking about restaurants in the area, recent movies we had seen, and how nice the weather had been so far this spring. The conversation was dull but pleasant.
We walked over a few blocks to Eighth Avenue and decided to go into a bagel store. I bought us bagels with low-fat lox spread and coffees and we sat at a table by the window and continued to get to know each other. She told me about how she'd grown up in Manhattan, in Stuyvesant Town, and gone to Hunter College. When it was my turn to give a personal history, I intentionally omitted that my girlfriend had committed suicide yesterday.
I noticed it was a few minutes past noon and I said, "Didn't you have to get back?"
"It's okay," she said. "I just had to do some laundry and shopping I can do it later."
We continued chatting until long after our food was gone. During our conversation, she mentioned that she sometimes went to the weekend antiques flea market on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. I suggested going there, and she said that was a great idea. At the flea market we strolled around, browsing the junk and furniture. She said she needed a lamp for her night table and I helped her pick out a green-and-red stained-glass one.
"You'll have to see how it looks with the rest of my stuff sometime," she said.
We left the flea market, holding hands. I told her that my ankles were sore from blading and that I was going to take the subway home. She walked me to the subway station at Twenty-third and Seventh. We chatted for a while longer by the entrance to the station, and then I said, "So we'll have to go out sometime."
"Definitely," she said.
At a nearby news kiosk, the worker lent us a pen and gave us a small piece of paper. She jotted down her number on the paper and gave it to me.
"I'll call you early next week," I said.
"Great," she said.
I could've kissed her good-bye, but I didn't. I went down the stairs to the subway. On the platform, I ripped up the paper into little pieces and dropped the shreds onto the tracks.
Back home, I showered. It was surprisingly easy, standing where Rebecca had died. I barely even thought about it.
Fully dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, I went into the living room. The answering machine was flashing, indicating a new message. I hadn't noticed the message when I came home before, so the person must ve called while I was in the shower. I pressed play and listened to Angie's voice, asking me to call her back. She sounded normal, so I didn't think the police had talked to her. I deleted the message, figuring I'd call her back later or tomorrow, or just see her on Monday.