Page 3 of Below the Shadow of the City
CHAPTER 3
WEDNESDAY, EARLY SEPTEMBER
M argo sidles up to me, chocolate muffin in hand, “Rob from finance brought these in for a meeting earlier, I had to steal one for you. Swear to god, it’s the best muffin I’ve had in my life.”
I tentatively take it from her and sure enough, even after just one bite, I can confirm. It’s among the best muffins I’ve had in my twenty-eight years. There’s definitely sour cream in the batter to make it that moist. Dutch processed cocoa powder, chocolate chunks, not chips, and coffee to give it some richness. I file the details away with the other recipes I might make if I ever return to baking. Someday. Possibly.
“Holy shit,” I moan. “That’s unreal.” I eat it up in a few massive bites, not caring that I should probably savor something this otherworldly delicious.
“So,” she twirls the end of her hair. “What was wrong with Celia, again?” I’d been avoiding the subject since Monday. But Margo caught me off guard. She’d bribed me with my one weakness: baked goods.
“She was too nice.” I dab at my face with a napkin to eliminate any pesky crumbs. I watch her brows furrow .
“Too nice? Most people want a partner that’s nice.” She scoffs. And she’s right.
“I know, but you know what I mean. Too nice for me . And too pretty, and charming, and just too good.”
“So you don’t want to date someone who’s nice, attractive, or charming? Got it.” I can hear the annoyance in her voice, but I know my text to her the other night was clear enough. She wouldn’t push.
“I don’t want to date anyone at all. Ever. I just want to go out with you, and Declan, and Matthias, and not worry about inevitably disappointing someone. Besides, it’s not like you date.”
Margo plucks off a piece of her own muffin and pops it into her mouth. “I have my reasons.”
“Getting quietly divorced from the bonehead you married in college three years ago is hardly an excuse, you know,” I say. She wryly chuckles. “You can’t play the traumatic breakup card if it was an amicable split. And if you hooked up with that huge Broadway actor three weeks later.” She gives me a knowing glance that tells me she could call me out for playing up my post-breakup depression, but is doing me a kindness by choosing not to.
“I think we call that a coping mechanism,” she replies. “This isn’t about me. If you don’t want me to set you up anymore that’s fine, I’ve run out of choices anyways. I can’t make too many enemies in Brooklyn by continually suggesting they go out with single-date Sigrid. But you need to promise to stop this whole self-deprecating moping around thing. We’re going out tonight.”
“It’s a weekday!” Not that it’s ever stopped us before, our early twenties were plagued by multiple nights a week at the diviest bars with the cheapest drink specials.
“So? Post work happy hour. We’ll get half-off drinks, cheap apps, and people watch. It’ll be just like the old days. Maybe we can pretend we’re new to the city and swindle the bartender into giving us free drinks, do you think we can still pass for intern age?”
“Absolutely we cannot. There is nothing about us that screams ‘twenty-one year old student’s first time in New York’ anymore. We’re too hardened.” The precise moment I lost that shiny glow about me was during my fourth month in the city when, just like in a movie, a taxi drove through a puddle and coated me head to toe with the contents of a suspicious puddle in the Upper West Side. Laughable now, disheartening then.
Margo grabs me by the wrist at 5:01 and pulls me four blocks over to a newer pseudo Asian-fusion spot neither of us had tried. Once I’d settled onto well worn barstools laughing at inside jokes with my best friend it was the time I’d lost sunk in self pity had dissipated. And sure, the curse still lingers above me like a dark cloud, but I could pretend it didn’t exist for a bit.
We hover over the menu attempting to deconstruct the food selections of the bar. We laugh at the attempt to fuse cuisines.
“My parents did a much better job of meshing cultures,” Margo laughs. She grew up the daughter of a second generation Korean mom and a Brooklyn Italian born and raised father. I’d gone to her parents house for dinner on a few occasions, who knew that tteokbokki bolognese could be so good.
The food here doesn’t matter so much as the time we’re spending precariously balanced on bar stools talking. My personality shift over the last seven months had not gone unnoticed, and despite Margo taking it in stride, like any good best friend would, I know she missed who I used to be.
But as we sip on half-off cocktails that still cost too much for bottom shelf liquor mixed with store brand juice, it was like nothing had changed about me.
“Girls,” a rough male voice interrupts us gossiping about work. I smell the man before I see him. Some vaguely familiar, very expensive cologne has completely assaulted our senses. “Could I buy you two shots? Lemon drops? Green tea? Whatever you want.”
I flinch at him calling us girls, but realize that Margo may have been correct in thinking we could pass for intern age. I don’t think that classifies as a win.
She whips around on her barstool to the man standing beside us and narrows her eyes at him. He’s roughly my dad’s age with smooth olive skin, greasy hair, and an expensive suit jacket that’s a smidge too small. His mouth twitches downward when he sees her tattoos creeping across her chest. She’s always had plenty, but I’d noticed more appeared in the years since her divorce. “Man repellent,” she had called them.
Margo grimaces, no, scowls at the man. “Beat it bozo, can’t you see we’re trying to have a conversation here?” I feel a smile form on my face subconsciously. Margo Savine is one of the only people I’ve met who could make talking like a fifties crime show detective sound even remotely cool.
The man bristles at her comment. “That’s no way to talk to a gentleman, hon.” I’m tempted to ask the bartender for a bag of popcorn to watch this interaction unfold.
Her red lips contort into a devilish grin. “Aw, you think that ogling my best friend’s boobs while gripping your hand around the crotch of your too tight khakis is gentlemanly behavior? Do us both a favor and buzz off before I tell the manager of this place to kick you out.” Hook, line, and sinker.
The man mutters a few unintelligible sentences that I pull the words “bitch” and “millennials” from as he fades away into the crowd.
My eyes track the faces mingling around the bar to see if there’s any sign of the man. He’s all but vanished completely, definitely for the best. If he’d lingered Margo would uphold her threat of getting him kicked out.
“Damn, you’re good. Cruel, but good.” I laugh dryly before taking another sip of my half priced margarita.
She shrugs. “Guy was a creep. I acted accordingly. Can you fault me?”
“You have a talent,” I chuff.
“It’s a shame I can’t get paid to do it.” She swirls her straw in her drink casually. As if moments before she didn’t tell a stranger to fuck off. Her direct demeanor and blunt way of speaking are traits I admire. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, good and bad. What you see is what you get. If only I could steal away even a quarter of that energy, I’d probably be a lot better off.
“Was he really staring at my tits?” I ask, shifting in my chair.
“I thought he was going to black out from how locked in he was.” Men can be absolute monsters sometimes.
I look down and adjust my top. “Gross.”
Margo and I had first met seven years ago at a similar bar. I was freshly twenty-one, she was a year and a half older. I was doing the adult thing of having a drink after a particularly frustrating mid afternoon shift, and she was just getting off of work as a Marketing Assistant at Holonatech and wanted to delay her return to her husband. She complimented my necklace, asked what I was drinking, and talked my ear off for the next hour. No one had been as outgoing or friendly to me in the city, especially no one as cool as her. We exchanged numbers and a promise to get drinks. I’d assumed the outing would never materialize since promises to hang out rarely did, but two days later she texted me.
That was the first thing I learned about Margo, she was genuinely kind, not superficially so just to placate people’s emotions. Yes, she was blunt. I’d seen as much when she shouted to the bartender that he was ignoring me when I was trying to order. But she would drop everything for the people she cared about, it was an added bonus that she happened to care for a lot of people. She could make friends with anyone in ninety seconds and enemies just as quickly.
“What was I about to tell you again?” Margo taps her fingers against her temple in an attempt to conjure the memory. “Oh! I think Ralph is totally a vampire.”
I nearly choke on my drink laughing. Ralph is weird. Not mythical creature weird, though. “Ralph, our boss, a vampire? Just because he gives off heavy Carlisle Cullen vibes it doesn’t mean he’s a vampire. First of all, vampires aren’t real.”
“I have a friend of a friend?—”
“No way, three degrees of separation don’t count.”
“If you’d listen to me,” she raises her palm to force me to pause. “I have a friend of a friend who’s really into these avant garde alternative nightclubs. She said there have been instances where she’s run into people who are very much not human. Vampires being one of them. And Ralph totally has a tell.”
“He’s gone outside in the daylight, though. Isn’t that a vampire thing? No sunlight?” I attempt to remember any instance where he may have adversely reacted to the sun or garlic bread or anything that I assume fend off vampires.
Margo shakes her head like she has a predetermined retort. “He always wears sunglasses, and he only goes between his car and the building. The cars always have tinted windows and our office windows are treated with UV protection film. So it’s possible he’s just good at dodging it.”
“That’s purely anecdotal.” I laugh. “Most buildings have tinted windows and most cars have them too. Once again, I reiterate, vampires aren’t real.”
“I think I saw fangs.”
I choke on my drink again. “You saw fangs? Why didn’t you lead with that? And why are you watching our boss’ teeth?” We’re towing the line of fantasy now. Vampires aren’t real, just like any other mythical creature. I’d long been a skeptic, and Margo’s always been more open minded. But come on, vampires? In New York?
“It sounds crazier than the sunlight thing! I wasn’t looking at his teeth intentionally, there was just a weird little flash. Anyways I’m telling my friend to tell her friend to look for him at that nightclub.”
“Why don’t you just go yourself?” Margo has connections all over the city and as a result has secured invites for us to just about any event imaginable, Broadway previews, nightclub openings, exclusive galleries, it doesn’t seem too outside the norm that she’d be able to get into this nightclub with “vampires.”
The look she gives me is one of complete bafflement. “You think someone can just invite themselves into something like that? It’s crazy exclusive. I don’t even scratch the surface of knowing the right people to get an invite.” Apparently I’d overestimated her pull in the city. To her benefit, I’d assumed that she could flash a bouncer her radiant smile and crash even the most exclusive of parties.
We turn the conversation back to more typical office gossip fodder, like the Finance Executive who’s sleeping with one of his Accounts Payable Managers. Not as interesting as our boss being a vampire, but at least it’s factual.
On my walk back to my apartment from the subway station I bypass my front door. It’s a beautifully perfect night, even the festering cynicism that had been rotting me from the inside out can acknowledge that. The day’s cloying humidity has all but fizzled away with a delightful breeze that’s just cool enough to spread goosebumps across my bare forearms.
I take out my headphones and listen, truly listen, to the sounds of the city. Distant traffic from the various bridges crossing the river, the rattling hum of the subway beneath me, tinny music playing from someone’s speaker in an apartment with an open window.
I approach Domino Park, just a few short blocks from my apartment, and stare at the sparkling skyscrapers on the other side of the water that are glittering and reflect on the river in a way that only the best artists could capture. The park is quiet, and if not for the view of lower Manhattan from the benches, you’d forget exactly where you are.
Staring at twinkling city lights and moving water muffle the continuous thoughts that tend to ping pong around my head, and I savor the precious few moments it lasts.
My eyes adjust to focus on the glowing red numbers on my nightstand. It’s just past two a.m. I’m supposed to be getting up for work in four hours. Sleep has escaped me entirely ever since I got back from my jaunt in the park tonight. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve shut my eyes and willed myself to rest only to reopen them five minutes later. The leaky faucet in the kitchen drips echo through the apartment. I can’t lay in this bed any longer, my legs restlessly twitch. Yellow street lights make my walls and faded cotton comforter look amber. I stretch across the mattress and stare at the ceiling, hoping that its popcorn texture will quiet my thoughts enough to make me rest.
It doesn’t work. Every light is too bright, every noise is too loud. I go through the list of methodologies I learned from some YouTube video when the insomnia had started back in January. There were simple tricks like counting and naming countries, getting up and stretching, changing positions in bed. Most nights one of the tools was my Golden Ticket to slumber. On nights none of them worked, I’d pick up one of the few books I have and re-read it until my eyelids grew heavy. I’ve cycled through every single option tonight, and I’m somehow less tired than I’d been when I started.
Logically, the only thing I can think to do now is my laundry. I figure if I have a straightforward, mindless task to focus on, then maybe I can bore myself into resting later. Though, later is looking suspiciously more like after daybreak. I’ve already planned on calling out of work, I can’t muscle through another strategy meeting or coordinate an expensive lunch order without getting sick to my stomach. The endless cycle and choreographed waltz has swiftly become the one thing I want to avoid. I remember the fantasies I used to have of monetizing my baking Instagram account, back when those dreams seemed logically within reach. I dreamt of paid sponsorships, brand collaborations, and maybe even my own cookbook. How quickly those flickers of possibility were stamped out into ashes.
Billie’s message has served as a small flint strike for those dreams, and it’s one of the many reasons I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling. Imposter syndrome and fear of failure cycle through my brain. Someone is handing me a dream on a silver platter and I’m too hesitant to accept it.
If I say yes, I have to dig deep and extract the parts of me that know how to bake and recipe test and be a fully functioning human.
If I say no?
Well, that’s the easier answer. I could forget I got the offer and carry on with my wallowing. My life wouldn’t change, for better or for worse. I’d be stagnant, I’d be frozen, but I wouldn’t face the possibility of failure. This isn’t a decision that’s supposed to be made at two in the morning.
For any rational person, it’s a “low risk, high reward” opportunity. Because truly, what did I have to lose? Still, there’s a cruel hissing voice in the back of my mind telling me that failing at this would just be another to add to my ever growing list of shortfalls. It’s silly. I know it’s silly. But once again, I go on autopilot and my nervous system makes the decisions for me. My fear is so loud it deafens out hope.
Methodically, I place my things in a cheap plastic basket with a broken handle. It’s been about five years since I promised myself that I’d buy a nicer, higher quality one. A lot happens in five years, procuring a new laundry basket is apparently not one of those things.
The laundry room sits in the basement of the building, and each time I have to go in there I’m grateful I only have to walk back up to the second floor. I’m careful to be quiet as I track through the hall to the stairs. The fluorescent lights illuminate the hallway as if it’s midday and not nearly the witching hour, and I forget for a second that everyone else in the building is likely asleep. I wind down the stairs, imagining I’m in a haunted castle holding an ancient text and a torch instead of a week’s worth of clothing loosely piled in a plastic bin.
My landlord could not have done a better job of making our basement look like it was ripped straight from a haunted house. The laundry basket sits in the curve of my hip as I shuffle anxiously through the dimly lit hallway. The second I had opened the door, I was accosted by the smell of mildew that felt centuries old. I half expect to see some stalactites jutting out from the concrete. Stale air lingers as I maneuver through the halls like a ghost. One crossing my path would be inevitable.
A flickering lightbulb hanging from a chain is my homing beacon to the laundry room. It’s so perfectly creepy that most modern horror directors would call it tacky, almost too on the nose. I glance over my shoulder, an action I do every time I’m in here. There’s always a lingering feeling that I’m being watched, despite the fact that I’ve never seen anyone else in this room. Maybe they all have in-unit machines, or maybe the laundromat a block over is cheaper. I never mind, less competition for me .
“Shit, shit, shit,” a muffled masculine voice mutters as I approach the door. There’s a clanging sound from the other side, almost like the washing machines themselves are tipping over into each other. I pause briefly. Some unsavory individual could have wandered into the laundry room, a thought that didn’t occur to me until this exact moment. I hesitate before stepping in and clutch the expired pepper spray dangling from my keys. There’s a good chance it’ll be utterly useless if I do come across a deranged person. Because only a deranged person would be in the laundry room at two in the morning.
I swing the door open and a quick flash of movement disappears into the barely ajar door on the other side of the laundry room. In the four years I’ve lived here, not once has that door been anything but locked. I’d assumed it was a storage room or the landlord’s sex dungeon. Something very obviously off limits.
“Hello?” I call out after the voice. Heavy footsteps sound like they’re retreating down a hallway. A cold draft blows into the laundry room from the mystery door.
“You left the door open, asshole,” I mutter under my breath. I remain in the doorway of what I had previously thought was the only entrance to this room. There’s a silent beat as I pause to see if any ghouls are about to jump out at me.
Footsteps approach the open door, then it slams shut. Loudly. My curiosity is piqued, but certainly not enough to go open the door and investigate. Maybe a braver woman would check things out for herself, but I’m not her.
A load of laundry spins clumsily in one of the washing machines. A basket has been haphazardly tossed aside and is now upside down on the floor. The footsteps have long retreated, and the laundry room is still, save for the churning of the outdated appliance. I step across the black and white checkered floor and place my things in the only other open machine. Maybe my building shares a laundry room with the adjacent one, it wouldn’t be completely out of the realm of possibilities that some cheapskate landlords wanted to save the money on building one in their own building.
Or maybe it is a ghost, a little voice nags in the back of my mind. I shake off the thought, I’m logical, to a fault. If ghosts were real someone would have actually proven it by now. And Zak Bagans and his weekly Ghost Adventures definitely don’t count.
I think little of this subtle weirdness. Instead opting to settle onto the metal folding chair in the corner and pull out the book I tossed into my basket to kill time. The shiny cover and pseudo-inspirational title mocks me. It’s required reading for work, someone on the leadership team insisted. I’d blame Ralph but I’d like to think he is slightly better than the type to encourage that kind of superficial synergy-promoting nonsense. A decade out of school I expected I wouldn’t have assignments like this. My thumb flips through the pages, paragraphs about how active listening leads to active leading ramble on, and I quickly grow bored. Maybe I should read this to fall asleep.
I make a mental note to make a trip to an actual bookstore soon. My bookshelves are occupied by more tchotchkes I’ve picked up at various flea markets and cookbooks than any true literary material. I chuckle to myself at the thought. What have I become? Someone who will stock my shelves with the likes of Dostoevsky and Kafka and Hunter S. Thompson just to seem like one of the typical cerebral types who flock to Brooklyn?
Most of the books in the apartment were Perrie’s. The empty shelves mock me daily with the visual reminder of her absence. We’d spent nights on opposite ends of the couch in comfortable silence with her face tucked into a book and myself crouched over my laptop either reading fanfiction or on Tumblr .
The door opens again, barely a crack, then swiftly shuts with a thud. The stranger is avoiding coming back in here, for some reason.
I decide to speak to them, taking the risk that they’re merely the same brand of crazy that I am. “You can come in, your stuff’s done.” I speak flatly. They’re probably harmless, but I still play with the nozzle of the pepper spray, just in case.
“Nah, I’ll just come back,” a deep masculine voice nervously explains through the steel door. He may think I’m the crazy one. He might be right.
I sigh. “Dude, it’s fine, it’s not like I’m an ax murderer.”
He laughs a bit at the line. “Seriously, I’ll come back later. You’re good.” Then the silence returns.
This time, curiosity wins and I walk to open the door. It’s locked. He really doesn’t want to be in the same place as me. Ten more minutes go by and my own load is ready to be moved to the dryer. I could be kind and do the same for this stranger. It could serve as a peace offering since I apparently threw a wrench in his late night plans.
Quarters slide into the dryer and the tumbling rumbles the ground a bit. I glance again at the load sitting in the washer and back at the change in my palm. It’s the right thing to do, I’ve somehow inconvenienced him. I can spare the quarters. If he’s going to be a dick about a good deed, that’s on him and his conscience.
Maybe he’s in the nude , I think, he’s washing ALL of his laundry . Logically, it’s the best explanation, why else would this guy be hiding out? Unless he’s a trigger-shy serial killer. Which if that’s the case I’ll gladly let him wrestle with that on his own.
I reach into the washer of his laundry and pull out the first bundle of wet fabric. It plunks into the dryer with a thud. Laundry is deeply personal, and I do my best to not gaze at any particular item too long. His clothes are certainly meant to hang on a large frame, that much can be gathered with little investigation.
There’s the typical male wardrobe fare, plaid boxer shorts, t-shirts, and jeans. I try not to invade much further, but as I toss the last few pieces in I notice one of his pairs of pants has a carefully cut and serged hole in the back. None of my business.
I slam the dryer door and start the cycle then return to my resting place. After another ten minutes, the door opens a crack again.
“Still here,” I call to the mystery figure. “I started the dryer for you, you have forty-three minutes.”
“Oh, um, thanks? That was really nice of you,” he stutters a bit, but seems genuinely warmed by the gesture. Not a dick, and probably not a serial killer, I gather.
“Any particular reason you’re hiding out? Doing laundry butt naked?” I quietly suggest, assuming he can’t hear me say it.
“That is…” He takes a too-long pause. “...Exactly what I’m doing.” Fuck, he heard me? There’s a shuffling sound from behind the door, he’s stirring, “but I promise. I’m not a creep.”
“Wait, what? I was just kidding I didn’t think—” I sputter out.
“No, no, it’s weird. I know. That’s why I’m doing it right now. Because I assumed I’d be alone. And…I’m not uh…totally in the nude.”
“Oh my god?” I feel my face grow hot, my fingers find the pepper spray again.
“Fuck, you’re right. There’s no normal way to go about this, is there?” He stammers.
“No, but I like the hole you keep digging for yourself here.” He’s definitely made this weirder now. “I assumed I’d be the only one doing laundry right now. ”
“So did I,” he laughs, it’s a bubbling chuckle that eases out of him.
There’s a short silence from the other side of the door, but I sense he’s still standing there. I resume reading, though reading is more like skimming over paragraphs and rereading them. His presence is distracting. How can I not be thinking about a guy naked on the other side of a door? Especially when he’s more or less lurking in a dank basement. He’s insisted he’s not weird, but his behavior is certainly bizarre.
“So,” he starts after the silence stretches into something teetering on the edge of uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re okay if I hang out over here?” A barely visible shadow moves about from his side of the door, the half inch opening reveals very little.
I shut my book and lay it across my lap. “Well, what else have you been doing while your laundry is running? You can’t really go anywhere in your…condition.”
He laughs again, “The hallway is pretty secluded. I brought a book, but quite frankly it hasn’t been all that enjoyable.” He has a hot voice, not that it’s much to go off of.
It’s oddly gruff, an odd contrast to the insecurity in his tone. I’m probably projecting, building this character in my head based off of a few pieces of laundry and a distant voice. I’m lonely, and have been feeling lonely for a while. Of course I’m craving a little human connection, even if it is in the middle of the night. With a supposedly naked stranger. In my laundry room.
“Mine is god-awful,” I retort.
“What’s yours?” he asks curiously.
“Some corporate inspirational bullshit I have to read for work. Yours?”
“ Les Miserables ,” he says in a flawless and deep French accent. My core twitches. Oh, that did something for me. Sleep deprivation has made me both crazy and a little lust-filled .
“Depressing,” I flatly answer, shoving down the sparkle of desire and chewing at my lip a bit.
“Very. I much prefer the musical, I’ve decided. Not that it’s any less depressing, but at least they’re singing through their sadness. And it’s a little more entertaining.”
The laundry continues tumbling. I watch it through the dryer doors since there’s no gaze to meet. I build an image in my head of the voice I’m speaking with, someone tall, if the clothes gave anything away. Kind eyes, messy hair, maybe a crooked smile or some other quirk that makes him barely short of perfect.
I think of ways to fill the silence, because despite my nature being to seek out solitude, I am trying to be at least a baseline level of polite. To the naked man. In the basement. Who has yet to convince me he isn’t some massive weirdo. “So, uh, big Broadway guy?” I ask.
“More like the younger brother of a sister who was totally obsessed with musical theater.”
“Ah yes. That’s what all the secret musical theater geeks say.”
“I guess I’d be lying if I said some of her interests didn’t rub off on me.”
“And you’re reading Les Mis because you’re someone who sings all the parts of ‘One Day More’ in the shower?”
“Guilty as charged. With the singing, not it influencing my choice in reading. But when I finally audition one day Broadway won’t know what hit them.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I tut.
“Everyone assumes I’d have this baritone voice but between you and me, I’m a killer soprano.”
I bark out a laugh at the comment. “I won’t tell a soul.”
A few more moments of quiet stretch between us. He clears his throat a few times, like he wants to say something but is unsure what.
“Do you typically read classic French literature, then, or is this an exception to the rule?” I find myself saying, completely out of character for me to be the one to initiate conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t read much at all.” He sounds embarrassed to admit it. “But I’m trying to do it more. And a friend recommended this but I’m totally in over my head here.”
“You are jumping off the deep end a bit,” I agree.
“Well, my sister suggested hockey romance, and my best friend suggested historical nonfiction. And since I don’t want to read about college hockey players hooking up or the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, here we are.”
“ Les Mis , which obviously everyone knows is the happy medium between historical nonfiction and hockey romance.”
“Precisely,” he chuckles. “And considering you seem particularly miserable about being forced to read the corporate self help book, I’m guessing you don’t typically do nonfiction.”
“Between you and me, I don’t read much, either. Plenty of fanfiction, but very little beyond that.”
“I’m sure a hundred thousand word count slow burn enemies to lovers between two TV show characters counts for something.”
Way too spot on. Because yes, that is my trope. Every. Single. Time. Maybe it’s because I don’t think anyone could fall for me without knowing the most horrific pieces of my soul first. Something to unpack later.
“Well, now I just feel called out,” I snicker.
“Your secret is safe with me, and we’re even now. Both harboring secrets for the other.”
“Is there going to be a blood oath involved?”
“No need for such extreme measures yet, I think we’re both protected by our respective anonymity.”
I get a flicker of a reminder again that this guy is still sitting behind the door, naked. Though “not totally naked” in his words, I still don’t know if I can trust him .
This predicament is a little comical. And if I didn’t know better I’d say it’s a romcom premise in the making.
He’s a naked stranger Sigrid, and you’re just making small talk with him while waiting for your laundry to dry.
But the small talk we’re making feels like more than just perfunctory conversational fodder between two random strangers. I’ve never met anyone who knows my favorite band and all of the members' other projects. He talks passionately about the connection between their two albums and the leitmotifs and shared themes like someone who’s taken a college course in it. And I hang desperately onto every single word he says.
He shares interesting takes on pop culture that normally would be shared over a candlelit table in a bar. He laughs, genuinely, at the snarky jokes I make. He’s intriguing. Intriguing enough that I could understand why someone would invite a person back to their place immediately after meeting.
Suddenly, a flash of fur catches the corner of my eye. Right in the barely open crack of the doorway that this guy is sitting behind. I’ve lived in New York for a decade, I’ve seen rats that look like they’re more primed to be training Ninja Turtles to fight than reside in alleyways and subway stations and from the glimpse I caught, this thing is big .
“Don’t freak out,” I say, my eyes trained to the doorway now. “But I think I just saw a rat. Like, right next to you.”
He says a muffled curse and I hear movement, like he’s scrambling to look for it, until he lets out a nervous laugh. “I don’t see anything.”
“Are you sure? It looked like something.”
“Positive, I might have scared it off though, I have that effect on occasion.” He chuckles and I continue to keep my focus on the doorway. I refuse to let any furry creatures surprise me down here.
I don’t even realize when amber morning light trickles in through the tiny window. It’s hardly noticeable, a sliver of the sunrise outside. But after a quick glance at my phone I realize it’s definitely morning.
My laundry has been long dry, as has his. I hadn’t noticed when the machine stopped tumbling, and this stranger who at first I’d assumed was in a rush to get away from me willingly sat and talked with me for nearly four hours.
Had I been holding him conversationally captive? How had I not felt the same itchiness that every other date had made me feel?
Not a date. Absolutely not.
“It’s morning,” I muse.
“Huh, it is” he quietly agrees.
Suddenly my insomnia catches up with me, I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours, a feat I hadn’t managed to achieve since my teens. “I’m sorry I held you hostage all this time, I truly didn’t realize how long we’d been talking.”
“If I wanted to leave I would have already, I have a pretty easy escape. I could’ve run halfway down the hallway here before you even realized it.”
“You just stayed because you couldn’t get your laundry while I was still in here,” I say.
“Honestly? I forgot I was even here to do laundry.”
“I should probably get going, and let you get your clothes,” disappointment audibly wraps around my voice, coming out as a complete shock to me.
Sigrid, he’s a random stranger who you’ll never see again. Get over yourself.
I get up and go to the dryer. I pull the now cool clothes from the dryer and they tumble into the basket. “If I ever find myself doing laundry in the middle of the night again I ho—maybe you’ll have clothes on the next time.” And maybe I’ll actually see the face that’s connected to the voice and charisma .
“I’ll be better prepared next time,” he says wistfully. Is he as bummed out as I am? Am I imagining it?
“Have a good day—sorry, what’s your name?” All this talking and we hadn’t managed to cover the most basic of information.
“No real name,” he cuts me off, “I wouldn’t want to be outed as the guy who does his laundry naked.” He wants this casual conversation to be cut off permanently, this is good. This is how it should end for us, parting ways in anonymity.
“Guess I’ll call you ‘Adam’ then, since you’re treating the laundry room like your own personal garden of Eden.” His spirited laugh bubbles from the crack in the door.
“And should I call you Eve?” My gut twists a bit at the question. I could keep it anonymous, but a small piece of me begs for this stranger to actually know me, I feel like he already does now.
“You could, but I’d much prefer Sigrid,” I say.
“Goodbye, Sigrid,” he says so warmly my subconscious betrays me and imagines he’s whispering it to me in bed. I catch myself, my fingers grip the handles of the laundry basket tighter.
“Goodbye, Adam .” I hear one more genuine chuckle from him before I shut the door on my side of the laundry room.