To Old Friends

“You know,” she says, leaning against railings, eyes upturned to the blinking lights of a landing airplane in the distance, with the city laid out before them, a grid of lights and the steady stop and go of cars pulsing in the streets like toys, “This is exactly the sort of thing I would have dreamt of doing with you, years ago.”

He laughs, a slight, dry laugh. “But now…”

“But now, I think, what are we doing? Really. Are we silly enough to believe that this means anything? That this one evening will cancel out the days and days of answering emails and taking out the trash and serial watching TV shows in bed?”

He places his hand on her lower back, anyway, though her tone and words doesn’t call for it. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“Well, isn’t it?” She turns to face him and he can see the gold claw clasp of her necklace, misaligned, dangling near the small diamond pendant. He longs to reach out and fix it.

“I thought we were just old friends reuniting for a laugh.”

“Oh but,” she narrows her eyes and gives him a smile, that smile, that he remembers, that sly flash of teeth and flicker of tongue between her narrow lips—she used to always wear a coat of something, some peach creamy balm on top of them that made them look irresistible, but only when she smiled, for the rest of the time she kept her lips pursed and tight like a frosted fortress, that touch of a tease, “were we ever friends?”

 She said friends like a dirty word, an inconceivable crime. Had they been friends? It is possible that he misremembered. He remembers fucking her, quietly, in the morning, when all their friends were still passed out, asleep around whichever East Village apartment, her soft whimpers and how perfect her hipbones were to grip, and how one night, breathless and giggling at a corner table at an expensive hotel bar she had begged him to kiss her and do no more, but then later she was the one who pressed against him, hungry hands grappling at his belt buckle.

He remembers that they had a talk, once. She had insisted and they were seated outside for brunch but the day was too chilly for that, and he spent most of the time cursing and rubbing his hands close together, while she kept biting her lip. The night before his mother had called with some bad news, awful news, about his father’s progress at the hospital. It was her calm, fixed tone that did it. But he wasn’t going to tell her, and she wasn’t helping anything, with the skittish way she picked at her salad, how she looked at him with this strange light in her eyes, and then when she caught him looking back how she quickly blinked and told him how she was woken up so early by the argument she overheard outside her window. He finished the huervos rancheros at a record pace and told her he had something he had to take care of. He was thinking about booking a flight home, that even though his mother said no, no, he knew.

After that it seemed far easier not to talk to her.

But maybe she was right, maybe they were never friends. “Well, does that mean we can’t be now?”

“Look at you.” There’s a cruelty in her tone, now, a sudden change that surprises him. He looks at her. Her face is flushed from the wine and something else. For a moment her lips are parted, revealing perhaps finally the secret she had wanted to tell at that last brunch, then she breathes in and her shoulders and breast release. She laughs, a clear, theatrical little laugh. “Well, sure. To old friends.”

She raises her glass and he clinks it. They stand for a moment, both looking at the skyline. She tucks the sliver of her black lace bra strap back beneath her dress.  She has gained weight, all these years, no longer that willowy girl but fleshed out, maybe even voluptuous.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.” He says. He had looked and looked again, disturbed by the sense that there was something familiar at the book reading. Or maybe he was just struck by the way she seemed so confident, cocky in the way she crossed her legs and stared straight ahead, alone.

“Oh, I recognized you.” She doesn’t look at him. “Almost as soon as you walked in. I used to imagine how you would be, all grown up, silver haired and gold watched and dashing in a suit.”

 ”Did I meet your expectations?”

“Sure, above and beyond.” She finishes her drink. “Your wife, I’m sure she is quite the perfect accompaniment, too.”

He smiles, and reaches out to fix her necklace. Her neck is hot beneath his touch, and he feels a shock of something at the feel of the wisps of her loose hair.

“Did you expect to fuck me tonight?” His smile stays, fixed, tired at the corners. She nestles the pendant back into place and meets his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He looks at his watch. “I should—”

“Go, yes.”

She is still at the railing when he turns to look at the door. Her skirt flutters in the wind and he remembers now, how she used to wear one of the exact same silhouette and drunkenly he had tugged and laughed at it, and how she turned away, embarrassed, and that night when he woke up to pee, how she tucked herself into a ball in feigned sleep, but when he came back she was still clenched there, stiff and small.

Source: paintedfictions

A Cold Night

The sidewalk was peppered with salt when she left the hotel, over preparation for predicted heavy snow that came only in a light, fluffy whiff during the afternoon. When she first came to New York she hadn’t known what it was, and her first winter she had asked a friend who couldn’t stop laughing, although it wasn’t the sort of thing you were just expected to know, was it? She’d grown up in a small suburb of LA where the temperature never dropped below 50. 

She wished that it had snowed, though. No matter how long she lived in the city that was the thing she never tired of, the transformation from concrete to plush white wonderland. She took a deep breath in of the fresh air and decided to walk. She was a few blocks from Central Park, and it was still early enough for a walk even in her very high heels. She had spilled her champagne on her leather gloves on the rooftop bar, and she tried to tuck her hands into her coat sleeves now, knowing that it looked at least a little ridiculous. You have beautiful hands, he had told her, and kissed each finger. Oh no, she laughed. Her fingers were almost skeletal, the bony knuckles sticking out awkwardly. You do, he insisted. But then of course he thought every part of her was beautiful.

The first time a boy had ever called her that was in high school and he was on Ecstasy and she was surprised and embarrassed. I’m not beautiful, she muttered. Cute, maybe. But beautiful belonged to the women with the slim long legs and high cheekbones. These days she was used to it, almost tired of it. Once a man had called her radiant. She had looked at him, hard. A Cosmo tip, he had laughed and told her. His ex girlfriend left copies lying around and he flipped through them for amusement. Call your girl radiant, not beautiful.

The park was empty and silent, and she took a seat on a bench near the 59th street entrance, facing the pond. Where did the ducks go at night? She smiled to herself and crossed her legs. When she looked up she could see the full moon, pierced by a few barren branches. It was a perfect postcard image. She wanted a cigarette.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat before the man with the dog passed by her. He caught her eye when she glanced up. Hello, he said. He was wearing one of those puffy jackets and had heavy gloves on. The dog was one of those terriers that looked a bit like a human, in a knitted red sweater. He had a warm, reassuring voice.

Hi. She smiled at him.

Lovely night, isn’t it? 

Yes. Marvelous, actually.

You look like you might be a bit cold.

She shrugged. Oh, I think my feet have frozen to the point where I can’t feel it any more. You have a cute dog.

Thank you. His name’s Fred.

Hi Fred. She withdrew a hand from her sleeve and reached down to scratch Fred’s ears. The dog let out a pleased, decisive bark. No chance you happen to have a cigarette, is there?

As a matter of fact, I do. The man grinned and pulled out a pack clumsily from a pocket. Wife doesn’t like it. Trying to quit…but you know what they say about old habits.

She laughed and said yes. He leaned in close to cup the flame from the wind. Thank you, she said, after she blew out her long, satisfying first drag.

You’re welcome. You know what, here, take the rest.

Oh I—

Please, you’d be doing me a favor. He winked, and she took the pack. Her fingertips were red from the cold. Well, enjoy your night.

I will. Thank you.

She played with the creased corners of the half full cigarette box and watched him and the dog trot away.

She kept the box, and remembered it, long after she forgot the champagne and the gloves and the man who had told her she had beautiful hands. 

Source: paintedfictions

One More Night

I want it to be just like the song, she told him. She slipped out of her dress, and unhooked the back of her bra. She let him take her in, the slanted lines of her shoulder blades, the tiny goosebumps that sprang all over her skin. She had to shove and wiggle to get out of the skirt. She left on the black lace panties, the nude hold up stockings and heels. She had planned this. Standing and breathing in front of him. 

Okay. He said. He understood. They stood in his living room. There were sparse, black and white photographs behind him. There was the panoramic view of Manhattan behind her. There was a glass topped coffee table between them. He stepped around it and she stood still, waiting. He gripped the roots of her hair. He shoved her body against his. He breathed hard against her naked neck. She was trembling and trying to hide it. He didn’t kiss her lips, but devoured the rest of her, relentless, violent. He pinned her against the window, her ass pressing against the glass, her wrists held hard together in front her breasts.

She looked at him. There was empty lust. There was dead fire. There was a cruelty he had rarely seen. When she fucked him it was mechanical, furious. Her hair a tangled mess, the sweat on her arms. He was the one who couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted her to pause. Wrap her soft arms around him and press her face against his chest. Kiss him tender and play with his hair. 

They never made it to the bed. They lay tangled in front of the window. She lingered for only a second, then her weight was gone. She pieced together her outfit. He watched her, still naked on the floor. She stepped into her spiked heels. She looked back at him at the door. “Goodbye, then.”

He watched the door slam closed. He closed his eyes. He was surprised by how much it hurt. 

Source: paintedfictions

A Perfect Match

We had spent all of the appetizer and our entrees trying to talk to each other, and now, over the too sweet but beautifully presented dessert, we find ourselves slacking with the effort, eyes lowered and silence between us. We had met at the insistence of a mutual friend, a short, fiery redhead who was hard to refuse. She had sang our praises so much that we blushed for the other person, and felt a little excited, too. We’d gingerly exchanged emails, skittish text messages, until one of us decided to be brave and venture out a time and meeting place. In the morning we paid extra attention to our hair, straightened a tie and touched up on lipstick before we left the office. We picked a comfortable restaurant, quiet enough to talk but lively enough to be at ease. We smiled and half hugged at first sight. We manuvered the door opening and coat hanging and chair pulling. But it wasn’t long before we realized that we had nothing to talk about. We found each other attractive and marvelous on paper, so we stuck it through, convinced that perhaps it was simply the awkwardness of a first date. 

You get the check and pay and I thank you, finally. Outside, the air is crisp and cold. We stand for a moment, and I look up, as if there will be some answer in the glow of the street lamp or the round moon overhead. You ask me where I live. I tell you the neighborhood, and we talk briefly of geography and rent. You clear your throat a little and offer to walk me to the train. We walk slowly, shuffling to stay next to each other. Next to the green globes above the subway entrance, you lean in and kiss me on the cheek. We assure each other that we had a lovely time, to stay in touch, until next time. I speed down the stairs, my purse clutched in my hands, relieved. You walk back to the intersection and hail a cab. At home, we both have a drink.

The next time it gets easier. We exchange amusing anecdotes about work. You compliment my necklace. We order wine—red for you and white for me. Your hand brushes against my arm. I lean forward and laugh. We feign enthusiasm for the food, though it is objectively mediocre. You tell me that you cook and offer to do it for me sometimes. This time outside, you help me into my coat, and then kiss me, a sure, closed mouthed kiss. We pull apart and smile at each other, then we kiss again, a bit more urgently. Goodnight, you say, and I look back and give you a slight wave half way down the stairs. 

The time after we meet for Happy Hour. The liquor helps—my gin and tonic, your whiskey, neat. Our knees touch between the narrow stools. When it gets too loud I lean in close to hear you talk. You touch my head and pull me close and kiss me long and hard. We have more drinks than we should and know we’ll be hungover in the morning, but it doesn’t matter. It helps us forget and makes us like each other more. We can imagine brunches and laughing beneath the sunlight and introducing each other to our cultivated friends. How handsome, how charming, my girl friends would gush. 

At the end of the night you invite me to your apartment, and even though I don’t have a change of clothes, even though I know I shouldn’t, my drunken happy stupor leads me to say yes and cozy up against you in the cab. It starts to rain and the rain drops make a beautiful pattern against the window. I want to stay in the car forever, but then we are there, and I smile at the doorman and smile as your arms wrap around my waist in the elevator. Your apartment is as impeccable as I imagined and after another customary drink and kissing on the couch, you pull me to the pressed fluffed white sheets of your king sized bed. You remember to turn off the lights after we fumble to get take off our clothes. In the morning I almost forget where I am and my head whirls with exhausion and pain. 

I kiss you goodbye quickly and you barely mutter a word. At home I scramble to take a shower—though the hot water is so luxurious on my skin—and change and am late for work. I know I’m supposed to have a happy glow, and maybe I do. I stare at my reflection a little longer than usual in the bathroom mirror.

In a few weeks we are a couple, and we are a success. In a few month we have pet names, inside jokes, presents. I spend less time at my apartment and remember to bring a change of clothes. You cook me that restaurant quality meal you promised and though it is only so so, I marvel over it as if you’re Tom Keller. At bars I catch strangers staring, wondering who we are, my beautiful cocktail dress and your impeccable suit. At home the lights go off and our bodies operate on automatic, to fleeting satisfaction. In a few years you propose, at the restaurant where we first, and the diamond is perfect, so perfect that I can’t imagine letting it go. Besides, we have mutual friends now, a history. We’ll always have something to talk about.

We remember, and me especially, that our wedding is supposed to be the most wonderful day of our lives. I smile so much that my jaw aches at the end of the night. My heels and toes are raw with blisters and I’m drunk with champagne. Our friends scream and cheer as our limo speeds to the hotel, with our packed suitcases in the trunk. Our special night is made special with my expensive lingerie, the candles and massage oil and the gentle way you try to caress me. I pretend to come, as always. I lie awake long after you’re asleep, facing the window and the candle still flickering with its weak small flame. 

Source: paintedfictions

Ghost

“You have a ghost,” she told him, and they both paused to peer up at his ceiling, as if they could see it there. 

“It’s an old house.” He said. He had only moved in a few months ago and hadn’t fully unpacked. He couldn’t be blamed. He could be blamed, however, for bringing her here. At the bookstore where they met he had touched her shoulder because he was sure she was someone he knew, and later after the cafe, when he smiled and tilted up her face it was the fleeting memory of someone else he kissed. 

She sighed and burrowed close to him. “It doesn’t seem malicious.”

“How do you know?” He asked, his hand automatically reaching to hold her.

“We had a ghost in the apartment where I grew up. He lived in the attic, most of the time, though some late nights he got lonely and clanked the pans in the kitchen downstairs. He was a sad ghost, but not unkind. He jumped out the window when he was very young, eighteen, nineteen, maybe. He was sick and lonely and couldn’t speak well. He thought nobody loved him. But after he died he learned how wrong he was.” Her eyes were closed, her expression content yet serious. “I looked for him years later, in the local newspaper archives. I’m sure it was the same boy. Even his name matched how the ghost felt. He loved it when I played music. That was when I felt him the most, sometimes stirring by the window. Especially when I was sad. I think he didn’t want me to do what he did.”

“What do you know about the ghost here?” He asked.

She was quiet. The playlist he put on had reached its last song. He toyed with her hair, the familiar, tangled curls. “I don’t know yet.” She said, finally. “You should recognize it better. It’s not very hard. You just have to pay attention.”

He tried to pay attention but mostly he felt the other kind of ghost. Her scent and touch and the melody of the way she laughed haunted his head, while the real girl laid her head against his chest, and heard the steady rhythm of his uncertain heart. 

Source: paintedfictions

Numbers

(a brief little story I wrote for Underwater New York, inspired by a bag of lottery tickets found in a pond in Prospect Park.)

She had been saving the lottery tickets for years. Every Monday, on her way home from work, skin tinted with the smell of Chlorox and bleach, fingers pruned, she stopped at a bodega to fill out the same set of numbers: 4, 22, 1, 13, 12, 5, for her mother’s birthday, her son’s, and her own. Her mother was dead, and her son, somewhere on the West Coast. He was traveling or playing music or trying to be an actor. He rarely called. Sometimes her memories confused her, and in her dreams she could not tell her husband from her son. Her husband had left her years ago. His drinking got worse after he lost the job and  his eyes filled with rage. She still had the scabs on her thigh, when he had rammed the edge of the table against her, the sharp of the wood cutting deep.

On Tuesday nights she waited in front of the TV, fingers poised over each number as they showed up on the screen. She did this always with calm and diligence, double checking just to make sure. She had to double check herself about other things, too. Her eyes weren’t what they used to be and her hands shook often. She didn’t think of herself as old, but perhaps it was the impression she gave to others. Sometimes people stood up to offer her a seat on the train. Maybe it was just her stooped back that gave her the look of carrying more weight than she was.

Mostly what she wanted was for her son to settle down with a nice girl. If she won the lottery she would buy them an apartment on the West side, with wood floors and big windows. She would move into a small room there and prepare their meals. She used to be a great cook, though these days she made the same thing every day: a hard boiled egg and tea in the morning, a  neat sandwich for lunch, and a vegetable casserole for the week for dinner.

One night, she couldn’t sleep. She lay awake for hours and listened to the sounds of cars outside. She felt her body like a coffin, ungainly and stiff, suffocating her. She clenched her eyes shut. She would go for a walk, she decided. She used to do it often. She pulled on a ragged coat and paused. She went to the drawer where she kept the neat stack of the lottery tickets, her history of failures. She stuffed them in a plastic bag that swung against her knees as she walked. She walked alone and slowly in the dark to the park where, once, long ago, the man she loved had gotten down on one knee and held out a ring that caught the rays of the sun. She could see it, her young, slim self and their long, hot kiss. She felt her young, slim self turning to watch her now. With relief, she met the girl’s eyes, and let the bag fall into the shallow pond. She did not look back.

The bag bobbed on the surface of the water, bloated and complacent until the daylight gave it new life, and someone walking past pointed and laughed.

Source: paintedfictions

Belles Lettres

After her death, they found a surprising thing in her room: a stack of love letters, written in her childish hand and pressed between the pages of a heavy book. Each was addressed to a different name: Dear Anthony, Luke, Matt, Wayne. They weren’t the names of people she knew—those were so few. They weren’t the names of recognizable characters from books or movies or TV shows. 

As they continued to search through her room, they found more and more letters. Folded as if a bookmark, tucked beneath the book cover, flattened underneath a stack. They had planned to donate the books, but now it seemed sacrilgeous, impossible. She seemed to be alive again, singing in the words on the page. Without you, my darling, she wrote, I would forget how to breath. Or: I spent all of Saturday inside, watching the rain and hoping that you, even so far away, are seeing the same. Her lovers always seemed to be distant, on the verge of disappearing, fading to gray. I miss you so terribly, she wrote, I fear that I’m going to lose my right hand, the one you once held and must have brought with you. 

Alive, she had never been poetic. She spoke quickly and often, it seemed, harshly. She moved without grace, her limbs heavy with clumsiness. She was often avoided, though never actively hated. When she laughed her voice squeaked, and it was not a pretty sound. Her friends, if they could be called that, saw her because they were trapped in solitary worlds of their own, and needed at least the occasional illustration of companionship. Even her family, here, now, trifling through her possessions, could not say that they were devasted. It was a terrible shock, a terrible loss. They cried at the funeral and held each other tight. But mostly they were relieved that they had each other to hold, and were secretly glad that it had not been her sister instead. 

Read More

Source: paintedfictions

  • 1,192 Plays
  • Summer In The CityRegina Spektor

Regina Spektor - Summer In the City

It was the hottest day of the summer and their bodies stuck to each other, the sheets. Her air conditioner had stopped working, but the fan was on, loud, rattling at the foot of the bed. Earlier they’d nearly knocked it over. Earlier she had curled her toes against the wall and arched her hips for him, needy, begging. He had gripped and pulled and wrestled and fucked her, his fingertips temporary tattoos sinking into her skin. I’ll break everything, he said. She laughed and kissed him. But it was true, he would, one of these days. Their bodies were glistening and tired, and free, for now. But even then, he knew, probably, that he would leave New York. And she would sit, small and aching with the symphony of wants roaring inside of her, while the air conditioner would be fixed, and her room would become cool, calm, and so small. 

Source: intedfictions

A Good Morning

The first time Charlie wakes up next to him, she is shocked at the sight of his naked body in the sunlight. When he curls away from her, the covers slip off, and there is his body, all of it, the toned and beautiful muscles, the fullness of his skin. She wants to reach out and touch it, doesn’t quite believe that she had, last night. It is glowing with life, even in repose. She studies the reddish freckles peppered across his shoulders, like a constellation of stars. She watches the way his brown curls move ever so slightly with his breaths. She is grateful he is not awake, or maybe not. Maybe she wants to see him open his eyes, lazily, and then for his lips to turn up in a smile, for his hands to fold her against him. It must be unusual, she thinks. In the stories it is always the man who longingly brushes aside the girl’s hair, presses a silent kiss against the nape of the girl’s vulnerable, exposed neck.

She slides off the bed and walks, barefoot and naked to the bathroom, where she spends a long time standing before the mirror,  hands perched on either side of the sink, with the cold water running. She stares into her own face, unfamiliar in this light, with the charcoal dots of mascara around her eyes, and its washed out, unnerving paleness that’s always haunted her, made worse these days with the stark blue toned black of her hair. She stares at her face and does not understand how he picked her, when at the bar there were countless others, their full fleshed bodies wrapped in colorful silk dresses, their lush lashes fluttering, their skin sun soaked and vibrant colored, beautiful and alive. He belonged to their world. He could have had, if he wanted, all of them at once.

But he had stopped next to her, Charlie, sitting alone at the very end of the bar, swirling the thin red straw in her Manhattan, which was too sweet. His suit jacket was draped over his arm, his top few shirt buttons undone. He had leaned in and told the bartender, I’ll have what she’s having, and, then, to her: mind if I join you? She nodded, surprised. I’m Daniel—he offered his hand. His handshake was firm and held on a moment too long. It seemed that as soon as he settled next to her, she could not keep very good track of how the rest of the night went. There was his smile, and his voice, and his presence, his heat next to her, that distracted her to no end. And wasn’t that what she had came for, in her uncomfortable wrap dress, a sad mimicry of the other women there, in her strappy heeled shoes that pinched her toes? 

Charlie tries to cup the cold water between her palms and brings it to her face. Her exhale is audible, delightful. She can shower. Perhaps that is the thing to do. Shower, dress. Hope that he’ll wake up before then. Or kiss him on the forehead and leave a  note, with her name and number. An elegant, graceful exit. She smiles at the image, the idea. But she knows she won’t do it. She waits another moment in front of the mirror, brushes the mess of her hair with her fingers. Then she returns to the bedroom, careful not to touch him as she readjusts the covers of the both of them. She lies awake, with her eyes open, her heart beating steady, for the rest of the morning, until it is no longer morning. Until it is late enough for him to stretch, groaning awake, and finally look towards her falsely closed eyes, her feigned half sleep. He touches her shoulder, lightly, and she stops pretending, smiling. Good morning, she says, her voice bright and orange hued.

Hi, he says. It is that sweet, tender, lover’s voice, and it makes her melt a little. Makes her glad she stayed. Breakfast? He says. Before he leaves the room, he places his hand on the back of her neck and squeezes. A possessive, strangely familiar gesture. Charlie feels a thrill of delight, and also, a sliver of discomfort. She has been awake too long, she thinks, to keep dreaming like this. And yet, she can hear him in the real life version, running the faucet, flushing the toilet, and later the clinking in the kitchen, where he must be preparing, cooking, and where she knows she should go, but doesn’t.

Later, she’ll say that her favorite thing in the world is waking up next to him. Later, after too many drinks with a very old friend, her friend will ask, laughing, but seriously, how did you end up with him? And she’ll laugh in response, though inside she’ll feel like someone is wringing out her lungs, and say, love works in strange ways. But it is not love that works in the strange ways, it is people. She knows that he made a mistake, but convinces himself that it is the right mistake. The right woman—different. She knows that she won’t correct it for him. 

But on that first day, before it has become anything, after he kisses her goodbye in front of the subway station, she is happy. Even the sticky heat of the platform can’t tear apart her good mood. On the platform, with the prospect of her own, cluttered room and resentful roommates before her, she relishes the memories of last night, this morning, because already they are allowed to be memories, and memories are hazy and beautiful. She believes that no one else on this same train feels the same pleasure. She gets off her stop, humming as she walks. 

Source: paintedfictions

Bedside Manners

“I wore that horrid yellow dress. Do you remember?” She asked.

Ted nodded. He sat next to her bed, hands clasped.

He didn’t want to remember. The dress, with the badly sewn sequins and scalloped hem. Her face heavy with make up, her eyes red. She stumbled on their walk to the subway, smelling of liquor and hairspray. When she threw up on the sidewalk, he had held back her hair.

“Well.” She shook her head. “Those were the days, huh?”

*

Carla’s bed was next to the window. Her roommate was a quiet old man. They were lucky. Ted remembered the shouting woman and her complicated family from the last hospital. Carla could never get to sleep without pills. Or the the nurse who talked nonstop about her baby boy. She kept his picture clipped to her pocket, a child with the eyes of a lemur. Ted couldn’t distinguish the occasions for her stays, but the details remained.

He reached for Carla’s hand. She closed her eyes. Lately, when Ted visited, Carla liked to reminisce. She only seemed to remember what Ted wanted to forget. She did it with a soft curiosity. “What about that stray cat?”

“Yes,” Ted answered. The calico cat had wandered around the courtyard of the apartment, hissing when it saw him. The neighbors fed it. Ted never liked cats, especially not that one. Carla was pregnant and Ted said that the cat would dangerous for the baby. They fought about it. The fight was bitter. He went to stay at a friend’s apartment that was cluttered with empty take-out containers. He slept on the couch and thought about leaving Carla. Leaving New York.

Months later, after Carla had lost the baby,  she whispered that the cat had been an omen—that he had been right.

Read More

Source: fiction.laurayan.com