Chapter 6
“Three dollars and eighteen cents,” the CopyMax clerk said, his tone bored yet polite.
“And the tape,” said, pulling a roll of packing tape off of a display rack near the register, and adding it to her pile.
The clerk scanned the tape and looked at his screen.
“Seven fifty-seven,” he said.
handed him her card and paid, while glancing through the color printouts on the counter. They’d come out nicely. The image of her couch looked crisp, and the bar stools that she’d photographed looked like new. She’d also included images of her bookshelf, several lamps, and her bed.
For living in an apartment for ten years, she thought, I really don’t have that much stuff.
And after this sale, I’m going to have even less.
The thought made her slightly sad.
Is this the right thing to do? she wondered. The thought had become so familiar that it felt like a trapped fly, buzzing around in her skull. She longed to let it free—to not have to deal with the uncertainty any longer.
I already said yes to the job, she thought. I’m selling my furniture. I’m moving to London. This is what I’ve wanted for almost my whole life.
Then why do I feel so bad?
Why does my stomach feel like it’s tied up in one giant knot?
Why does my heart feel heavy?
She knew the answer, but as she walked through the crisp, fall sunshine, taping up fliers on each block on her way back to her apartment, she tried to push it away.
Don’t think about Martin, she instructed herself.
Don’t think about the way he looks in a suit… a tee shirt… naked. Don’t think about the way it felt to rest your head in the crook of his arm, and have him stroke your hair. Don’t think about the bliss you felt when he was at your side.
Just don’t think about it.
The more she attempted to deny the feelings, the stronger they got.
She neared the Starbucks where she’d first seen Martin, and she looked inside. She saw the counter where he’d stood, in his suit and tie, looking like a celebrity who’d just stepped off of the pages of a magazine.
As she stared through the windows forlornly, gazing at the soft mix of reflections and coffee-shop patrons inside the space, she could imagine that she saw him there again. The barista held up a drink and said something, and a well dressed man walked forward to pick it up.
In her mind, the man was Martin. She imagined his fine features, his tall, muscular frame. As the man in the suit turned, the image in her mind popped like a balloon. The Starbucks customer was pale, sharp boned, with a full beard. It’s not Martin, she thought.
I need to get him out of my head.
It was just a fling. One night.
He hasn’t even called.
She swiveled to the lamppost at her right and angrily slapped her flier up on the circular post. A wind rose up, pulling at the corners of the paper. She struggled to hold it steady with one hand and wield the tape with the other. Her hair whipped around her face, adding to her frustration.
Why hasn’t he called? she wondered, fighting with the sticky tape. It folded back on itself, and as she tried to pull it free, she ripped the flier.
She blew out a frustrated breath, swiping her hair away from her face. Instead of fighting the paper any longer, she stopped trying to hold it onto the post. She returned the tape to her bag, and then crumpled the flier into a ball.
Seeing a trash can to her left, she tossed the ball towards the opening.
The wind caught it and blew it from the trash, and the paper ball rolled away from her. Though she lunged for it to try to catch it, a teen on a skateboard zipped passed her, getting in her way.
Let it go, she thought.
I give up. That’s enough fliers for one day.
I’ll put up more tomorrow.
Her phone rang, and she started walking toward her apartment as she answered it.
It was Sandy.
“How would next Friday work for you?” Sandy asked. “We could all go to Senior Valencia’s on 16th street. Dustin’s new boyfriend works there and can reserve the back room for us.”
Suddenly, felt like she was going to cry. Wind continued to whip around her, and she swiped it angrily from her eyes. Her voice sounded panicked as she spoke. “Next Friday?” she asked.
“Yeah, maybe around seven? That would give Dr. Norden time to get there after his interview with CBS. And Olivia has some appointment but she said that she could make it by seven too. What do you think?”
“Friday,” repeated slowly, her legs carrying her around the corner. She spotted her apartment building down the block. The lump in her throat grew larger. She felt her throat constricting, and she had to fight to breath.
“Yes,” Sandy repeated. “Can you hear me okay?”
“I can hear you fine,” said tightly. Then she raised her hand to her forehead, her brows crinkling tears welling up in her eyes. “ Oh my God, this is all happening—so—so fast!”
“Would Saturday be better? I mean, you’re leaving mid week, right?”
swallowed. She stopped walking, and looked up as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Her gaze searching over the tops of the buildings she’d grown to love so much. This city is home, she thought. How can I leave?
“Saturday isn’t better,” she said sullenly. “It won’t make a difference.”
“Why do you sound mad?” Sandy asked. “You want to have a going away party, right?” Now Sandy sounded defensive.
sighed. “I don’t mean to take this out on you,” she said carefully. “It’s just—I’m feeling stressed, is all.”
“Oh, honey,” Sandy said, friendliness returning. “What can I do?”
breathed in and out again, the threatening tears slowly drying. She watched a window cleaner lower himself down a story on a highrise. She raised her eyes farther, and looked to the clouds.
“Nothing,” she said. She pushed her hair away from her face. “I’m putting up notices around my neighborhood about my furniture. Hopefully I can sell it off by this weekend. Then next week I’ll pack, and I’ll be set to go by the end of the month.”
“I have an air mattress you can use,” Sandy offered.