Page 79 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
The March wind slices through me as I wait in the taxi line at JFK. Looks like it snowed while I was away—a while ago, if the grimy, gray piles of snow are any indication—though it doesn’t take long for snow to turn gray and grimy in this city. It’s a far cry from the warm breezes of L.A. and the tropical humidity of Costa Rica.
I get in the next taxi, let the driver stash my luggage in the trunk, and rub my gritty eyes. I fucking hate red-eye flights, but I have an appointment this afternoon and what was supposed to be a reasonable departure time yesterday turned into a snafu of flight delays and plane changes and god, I’m so fucking exhausted.
I lean my head against the seat back and doze lightly while the cab driver navigates the early morning traffic into Manhattan. He drops me off in front of my apartment building and I look up at my apartment window the way Adrienne did when she came to see me before the wedding. The super has salted the sidewalk and steps but that just means that the building’s residents have tracked slush and salt through the lobby and up the stairs.
Three flights of stairs lugging two suitcases and a garment bag and I’m supposed to be fit and athletic but I’m breathing hard when I reach my apartment door. I unlock the door, dump my luggage just inside, and make a beeline for the kitchen. There’s still the solitary water glass upside down on the little dish drainer next to the small sink—just where I left it a month ago when I left for Costa Rica—and I fill it with water from the tap and gulp it down.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I’m hoping, unreasonably, that it’s Jason, but it’s Micah.
Glad you’re back in the city. Confirming our 3:00 today. I should tell you that I do have another party interested in the space.
Of course it’s not Jason. I think about calling or texting him myself, like I’ve thought about every single day since we arrived at our respective locations after Kelsey’s wedding week. I’ve re-read our text exchange the night I arrived in L.A. from Costa Rica every day since.
But he didn’t text me the next day and I didn’t text him. Or the next day. Or the next. Three weeks have gone by with no contact between us.
I’ve been busy. I’m sure he’s been busy.
And it’s not like three weeks is the longest we’ve gone with no contact.
But I lost count of how many times I picked up my phone to text him. Something dumb, another Buffy reference, maybe. Anything, really. Or call him just to hear his voice, that velvety, deep voice that sounds like music even when he’s just speaking. The Saint Sebastian Six have a concert at Saint Sebastian's next month and Kevin posted a clip from their last rehearsal last week. I watched it four times.
I thought things would be different after Costa Rica, but so far, they’re not.
I rinse the water glass and place it back upside down on the dish drainer. I need a nap before my appointment. I can’t make any decisions in this state of exhaustion.
My bedroom is at the back of the apartment, with a window that looks out onto a small courtyard. The heat in my apartment is unpredictable. Some days, the radiator hisses and spits but barely warms the place. Other days, like today, apparently, the radiator steams like a boiling tea kettle and the air is stale and over-warm. I crack the window and face-plant on the bed without pulling the covers down or changing clothes.
I feel somewhat better when I wake up and better still after a shower. It’s warmed up some outside and I jog lightly to the end of my block, turn the corner, and head two streets up. I’m peering into the ground floor windows of the building when Micah calls my name.
I turn, greet him and shake his hand, then wait while he fumbles with the key in the door. Micah steps back and allows me to enter first. He chatters about something as he steps in but I’m not listening. I cross to the middle of the large room and stand there.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen this space, and Micah knows that, so he quits listing its features out loud. The big windows are great, lots of light and air, though I’m not sure if the natural light will be sufficient for filming, especially on cloudy days. I’ll probably need supplemental lighting.
My own fitness studio. After all these years of teaching out of other people’s gyms and filming in the living room of my apartment, I could finally have a home base.
Roots.
A reason to stay in one city instead of drifting between coasts and countries, carrying my life in two rolling suitcases like I’ve been doing for too long.
Wood flooring, which is great for the yoga side of the space, though I’ll put mats down in the spin section so members can drip sweat and not ruin the floors. Nice high ceilings. It was a restaurant before, I think Micah told me, and there are still faint marks on the walls where shelving or equipment was fixed. It smells like wood varnish and cold air.
I walk the space slowly. The bikes would face the windows on the south wall, in a semi-circle. Yoga studio space on the opposite end of the space, with a short wall with cubbies for mats and props, and space for members to leave their shoes.
Camera rig in that corner for spin classes, moved to the opposite corner for filming yoga classes. Hmm, moving the camera rig every time I switch modalities might become a pain in the ass, but I’m not sure I have room in my budget for two rigs.
Still, I can see what this space can become so clearly.
I could do it in L.A. The rent would be a little higher, but let’s be honest, Hell’s Kitchen gentrified a long time ago and nothing’s cheap here. But Micah’s had this place vacant for a while and he’s willing to come down a little—a very little—on the rent.
Micah’s wandered off tactfully, and I sit down on the floor. I cross my legs in sukhasana and close my eyes. There’s really only one reason I’m thinking of renting this studio in New York City.
I’ve been so fucking patient for fifteen years. I’ve been so careful not to want too much.
And where has it gotten me? Sitting on the floor of an empty room, trying to decide whether to build a life around a man who might never choose me.
But I don’t know if I can sign this lease and not know.
“I hate to rush you, Victor, but…” Micah’s voice is quiet but insistent.
