broad dirt path that ran beside the canal. Jack indulged in his complicated, almost frantic, ritual of sniffing and peeing, while Nico let her mind drift, eyes on the turbid water.
On the way back, she tied Jack up outside Dean & DeLuca’s and went in to buy cheese and a baguette—and a single, perfect tomato. Returning a minute later with her little bag of groceries, she found a woman in a maroon suit talking to Jack, whose leash she’d tied to a parking meter.
“Heeza guh-boy,” the woman mewed, “waiting for Mommy. Yes he izzzz. Whatta guh-boy.” Suddenly, she straightened up, and looked sharply at Nico. “I hope you clean up after him.”
“Oh,” Nico said, taken aback. “I do. Absolutely.” Stooping, she freed Jack from the parking meter, and headed back toward her apartment.
Inside, she set to work on a tomato and brie sandwich, lightly toasting slices of the baguette. Using an Appalachian bread knife that resembled a fiddler’s bow, she began to cut paper-thin slices from her perfect tomato. And as she did, and much to her surprise, she found herself crying. She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks, hot, wet, and senseless. It was almost as if she was slicing an onion instead of a tomato,because there were lots of tears—and they came from nowhere, as irrelevant as snot because they had no emotional content. They were just … tears.
She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t unhappy. She wasn’t … anything. It was the woman outside Dean & DeLuca’s who’d brought it on, the one who was so friendly to Jack, and yet … people like that made your heart sink.
I hope you clean up after him!
she’d said, as if there was something wrong with
her
, something about Nico that was unclean or contemptible. You could see it in the woman’s eyes, hear it in her suspicious tone.
When the sandwich was made, she went into the living room and sat down in front of the TV Jack composed himself at her feet, waiting for her to eat, waiting for her to share—which she did, tearing off a part of the sandwich that was runny with cheese. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Just … gray.
Pushing the sandwich away, she lay back on the rose-velvet sofa and flicked on the remote. Jack finished his little wedge of brie and, with a regretful glance at its source, jumped up beside her, curled into a ring and went to sleep. Idly, Nico scratched behind his ear as the morning bled into afternoon, talk shows giving way to soap operas and peculiar sports.
Oprah! One Life to Live. The BMX Challenge …
It was odd the way these things came and went. One minute, she was on fire, the next—she didn’t feel like doing anything. Wherever her energy had come from over the last few days, it was gone now. All she wanted to do, all she felt able to do, was lie there in front of the TV And it really didn’t matter what was on.
NASCAR. The Weather Channel. Seinfeld
reruns. It was depressing.
And tiring. And not just physically. The exhaustion she felt came as much from her heart as it did from her body.
I hope you clean up after him!
Why were people like that? It was enough to make you weep.
* * *
The sandwich was gone.
Jack must have eaten it—which was fine, because she’d been lying there on the couch for fifteen or twenty hours, gazing at the television, half-asleep, watching anything and everything, seeing nothing. And now, after all that rest, she was even more tired than when she’d first lain down. It was all she could do to sit up, and once she had, she regretted doing it because the back of her head was pounding.
Walking into the kitchen, she stood for a minute in front of the little espresso machine, rehearsing in her mind everything she’d have to do to make herself a cup of coffee. In the end, she gave up on the idea, and wandered out onto the balcony. It was a chilly day, and overcast, as if her mood had been projected on the world around her. Every once in a while, a gust of wind rattled the wrought iron
On the way back, she tied Jack up outside Dean & DeLuca’s and went in to buy cheese and a baguette—and a single, perfect tomato. Returning a minute later with her little bag of groceries, she found a woman in a maroon suit talking to Jack, whose leash she’d tied to a parking meter.
“Heeza guh-boy,” the woman mewed, “waiting for Mommy. Yes he izzzz. Whatta guh-boy.” Suddenly, she straightened up, and looked sharply at Nico. “I hope you clean up after him.”
“Oh,” Nico said, taken aback. “I do. Absolutely.” Stooping, she freed Jack from the parking meter, and headed back toward her apartment.
Inside, she set to work on a tomato and brie sandwich, lightly toasting slices of the baguette. Using an Appalachian bread knife that resembled a fiddler’s bow, she began to cut paper-thin slices from her perfect tomato. And as she did, and much to her surprise, she found herself crying. She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks, hot, wet, and senseless. It was almost as if she was slicing an onion instead of a tomato,because there were lots of tears—and they came from nowhere, as irrelevant as snot because they had no emotional content. They were just … tears.
She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t unhappy. She wasn’t … anything. It was the woman outside Dean & DeLuca’s who’d brought it on, the one who was so friendly to Jack, and yet … people like that made your heart sink.
I hope you clean up after him!
she’d said, as if there was something wrong with
her
, something about Nico that was unclean or contemptible. You could see it in the woman’s eyes, hear it in her suspicious tone.
When the sandwich was made, she went into the living room and sat down in front of the TV Jack composed himself at her feet, waiting for her to eat, waiting for her to share—which she did, tearing off a part of the sandwich that was runny with cheese. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Just … gray.
Pushing the sandwich away, she lay back on the rose-velvet sofa and flicked on the remote. Jack finished his little wedge of brie and, with a regretful glance at its source, jumped up beside her, curled into a ring and went to sleep. Idly, Nico scratched behind his ear as the morning bled into afternoon, talk shows giving way to soap operas and peculiar sports.
Oprah! One Life to Live. The BMX Challenge …
It was odd the way these things came and went. One minute, she was on fire, the next—she didn’t feel like doing anything. Wherever her energy had come from over the last few days, it was gone now. All she wanted to do, all she felt able to do, was lie there in front of the TV And it really didn’t matter what was on.
NASCAR. The Weather Channel. Seinfeld
reruns. It was depressing.
And tiring. And not just physically. The exhaustion she felt came as much from her heart as it did from her body.
I hope you clean up after him!
Why were people like that? It was enough to make you weep.
* * *
The sandwich was gone.
Jack must have eaten it—which was fine, because she’d been lying there on the couch for fifteen or twenty hours, gazing at the television, half-asleep, watching anything and everything, seeing nothing. And now, after all that rest, she was even more tired than when she’d first lain down. It was all she could do to sit up, and once she had, she regretted doing it because the back of her head was pounding.
Walking into the kitchen, she stood for a minute in front of the little espresso machine, rehearsing in her mind everything she’d have to do to make herself a cup of coffee. In the end, she gave up on the idea, and wandered out onto the balcony. It was a chilly day, and overcast, as if her mood had been projected on the world around her. Every once in a while, a gust of wind rattled the wrought iron
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