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Authors: Emma McLaughlin
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left, and down a poorly paved, unlit street I find the graffiti-sprayed door Citrine described and ring her buzzer. A swaying huddle of the extravagantly tattooed and heavily pierced pass, heading to and possibly from a bar. Somebody’s babies. Between Jarndyce’s Elle Decor spread for sixth graders and waiting in Haverhill Prep’s fog of Axe and apathy, I’m thinking if I even ever got to ready, I’d totally raise kids in the suburbs. In the fifties. The 1850s.
After a few moments the buzzer sounds, letting me into an equally graffitied stairwell. I climb the three flights of stairs and open the fire door to her floor.
“Down here,” she chimes, holding out a candle at the far end of the dark corridor. “One by one the hall lights have burnt out and my landlord’s a dick.” She snuffs it and pulls me into a tight embrace—and again, honeysuckle.
“Hey! Thanks so much for having me out.”
“Of course, come in!” I follow the trajectory of her extended arm into her studio. As she bolts the door I turn around to see her entry-way is created by a raw wood structure that houses her kitchenette on one side, a bathroom on the other, and above it all, a sleeping loft. The rest of the room is open, ringed with windows and reeking of turpentine.
“Sorry about the smell—I was stretching canvases. I was supposed to help Clark oversee the move this morning, but he got so type A about the whole thing I had to get out of there. Want some wine?” she says over her shoulder as she turns into the kitchenette.
“Sure!” I walk around to take in the space, which is lined with layers of finished paintings resting against the walls and stacks of boxes filling with the contents of her half-emptied bookcases. A ping emits from my bag and I take out my BlackBerry to see a text. FRIDAY 4PM 721 PARK 9B THNX GRAYER.
The interview’s at their apartment? She’ll be there? He said she’s tranqued. How tranqued?
“Here.” A drink in each hand, Citrine crosses to me in brown suede high-heel over-the-knee boots atop brown leggings, a chunky brown sweater on top.
“You weren’t stretching canvas in that ?” I ask, turning off my BlackBerry and fears, past and present, for the evening. I rest my bag on the windowsill.
She laughs. “No, no, I always clean up for dinner.” She hands me a delicate glass on a slender stem. “Cheers.” She touches our rims, making a beautiful ping, and I’m surprised mine didn’t shatter it’s so fine. “It’s a Château Lafite, just so you savor. Clark sent over a case when he realized I was offering prospective buyers Australian Shiraz. He’s so supportive.” She beams as I take a welcome sip. “Isn’t that a great name, Clark? Clark,” she repeats with exaggerated tongue movements. “Every time I say it I feel like Margot Kidder. Come, sit down.” She plunks herself onto a kilim floor pillow, curling her long legs under her. “Sorry, I already sold my couch to some dude off craigslist.”
I lower myself onto the one across from her in turn.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Totally.” I try to mirror her graceful perch. “After we left Africa I swore I wouldn’t sit on the floor again for at least five years, but this is on a pillow, so, all good! Oh, and no couscous. No floors or couscous.”
“So Moroccan for dinner is out?” She smiles. “My God, you guys really have been everywhere.”
“Not everywhere. And, at most, two years at a time. But it gets old. Making friends you know you’ll be leaving. Never really fixing anything up. Always sleeping on rented mattresses. The most exciting thing we’ve done since we moved back was go and buy our own.” My shoulders rise at the memory. “No one else has ever slept on it. Or made a baby or delivered a baby.”
“Really?”
“In our third apartment—judging by the stains.”
“Okay, killing my vision of foreign affairs.”
“No, no, it was great. Really.” I imbibe a large mouthful of the full-bodied wine.
After a few moments the buzzer sounds, letting me into an equally graffitied stairwell. I climb the three flights of stairs and open the fire door to her floor.
“Down here,” she chimes, holding out a candle at the far end of the dark corridor. “One by one the hall lights have burnt out and my landlord’s a dick.” She snuffs it and pulls me into a tight embrace—and again, honeysuckle.
“Hey! Thanks so much for having me out.”
“Of course, come in!” I follow the trajectory of her extended arm into her studio. As she bolts the door I turn around to see her entry-way is created by a raw wood structure that houses her kitchenette on one side, a bathroom on the other, and above it all, a sleeping loft. The rest of the room is open, ringed with windows and reeking of turpentine.
“Sorry about the smell—I was stretching canvases. I was supposed to help Clark oversee the move this morning, but he got so type A about the whole thing I had to get out of there. Want some wine?” she says over her shoulder as she turns into the kitchenette.
“Sure!” I walk around to take in the space, which is lined with layers of finished paintings resting against the walls and stacks of boxes filling with the contents of her half-emptied bookcases. A ping emits from my bag and I take out my BlackBerry to see a text. FRIDAY 4PM 721 PARK 9B THNX GRAYER.
The interview’s at their apartment? She’ll be there? He said she’s tranqued. How tranqued?
“Here.” A drink in each hand, Citrine crosses to me in brown suede high-heel over-the-knee boots atop brown leggings, a chunky brown sweater on top.
“You weren’t stretching canvas in that ?” I ask, turning off my BlackBerry and fears, past and present, for the evening. I rest my bag on the windowsill.
She laughs. “No, no, I always clean up for dinner.” She hands me a delicate glass on a slender stem. “Cheers.” She touches our rims, making a beautiful ping, and I’m surprised mine didn’t shatter it’s so fine. “It’s a Château Lafite, just so you savor. Clark sent over a case when he realized I was offering prospective buyers Australian Shiraz. He’s so supportive.” She beams as I take a welcome sip. “Isn’t that a great name, Clark? Clark,” she repeats with exaggerated tongue movements. “Every time I say it I feel like Margot Kidder. Come, sit down.” She plunks herself onto a kilim floor pillow, curling her long legs under her. “Sorry, I already sold my couch to some dude off craigslist.”
I lower myself onto the one across from her in turn.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Totally.” I try to mirror her graceful perch. “After we left Africa I swore I wouldn’t sit on the floor again for at least five years, but this is on a pillow, so, all good! Oh, and no couscous. No floors or couscous.”
“So Moroccan for dinner is out?” She smiles. “My God, you guys really have been everywhere.”
“Not everywhere. And, at most, two years at a time. But it gets old. Making friends you know you’ll be leaving. Never really fixing anything up. Always sleeping on rented mattresses. The most exciting thing we’ve done since we moved back was go and buy our own.” My shoulders rise at the memory. “No one else has ever slept on it. Or made a baby or delivered a baby.”
“Really?”
“In our third apartment—judging by the stains.”
“Okay, killing my vision of foreign affairs.”
“No, no, it was great. Really.” I imbibe a large mouthful of the full-bodied wine.
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