She shakes her head, brushing past him, fully taking in the space. “Holy shit. This could be a sitcom apartment.”
“It would look more impressive without all the junk.” Josh retreats to the kitchen to set the table. “I’m in the middle of a renovation.”
To Ari’s eye, the front of the apartment looks less like a “renovation” and more like someone deposited the contents ofa basement all over the floor, started trying to put it in order, and gave up halfway through. As a veteran dumpster diver, she can’t help strolling around the piles of treasures: a Thighmaster resting on a cracked boom box, heavy ceramic lamp bases with giant beige shades, the remnants of Brodsky’s giant neon sign. The smell of old paperbacks and dusty vinyl.
Her gaze catches on a familiar silhouette.
“You can’t get rid of the Bowflex, it’s one of the best pieces of sex furniture known to man.” Ari rushes over to the angled bench. She pulls at the lat tower assembly, testing the stability. “Do you have any carabiners?”
Josh’s expression is both stern and laced with panic. It’s so easy to make him uncomfortable, it’s almost unfair.
She perches cross-legged on the bench. “Just so we’re clear, there’s no universe where any form of pants is more comfortable than no pants. I take mine off as soon as I walk in the door.”
“So every time we watch a movie, you’re not wearing pants?”
“Actually, I’m totally naked.” She heaves herself off the Bowflex and walks toward the table, where he abruptly stops setting out the to-go containers. “Sorry, I’m fucking with you again. I can’t watch movies naked. It’s embarrassing. I’m an old T-shirt and underwear kind of girl.”
He doesn’t look up. “Like the shirt you’re wearing? Which isn’t even yours?”
“It’s mine,” she says, voice tinged with indignation.
“Really? Bikini Kill is a little before your time.” He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “More of a…Gen X media studies professor thing.”
“Legally, this shirt is half mine,” she declares. “Am I supposed to throw it away?”
“Youtold me to toss out everything that belonged to Sophie. It’s hypocritical.”
She lets out a little huff. “It’s a comfortable shirt! That’s different from keeping someone’s lingerie and you know it.”
“Is it?”
“Everything else is gone. I can’t have thisonestupid shirt?” She’s surprised at the way her voice almost cracks. Josh falls silent. It’s just as well—Ari doesn’t have the energy to pick a fight so soon after the Radhya debacle. “Can we eat now?”
He gestures at the table, which is set as if he’s hosting a formal dinner. Ari can’t help but observe that it’s large enough to accommodate sex: a true New York luxury.
“Eating on dishes instead of takeout containers helps you stay in touch with your humanity,” he says. “According to my therapist.”
“I guess that makes me an animal.” She takes a seat. His kitchen is in disarray—old cabinets and countertops with fancy new appliances, some still wrapped in plastic. “I thought cooking was your passion,” she says.
Josh carefully arranges the tacos on a platter. “I refuse to fill my free time with something that reminds me of failure.”
As she dumps a mountain of tortilla chips onto her plate, a dating app notification splashes across Ari’s lock screen.
Any one of these matches could be The One! Tap here to find out who.
“Ugh,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the message. “How do I tell this app I don’t want ‘The One’? I’m not even ready to have totally forgettable rebound sex yet.” Ari clears her throat, reading from the profile. “ ‘Adam, thirty-eight. Big white one. Uncut. Huge loads. Can’t an Uncut guy just get some head.’ ”She drops the phone on the tabletop, disgusted. “This is what you put up with when you date men.”
He reaches for her device and stares at the moonfaced man featured in a driver’s seat selfie. Josh has one of those faces that never seems to relax into a casual expression. It’s like his eyes are always scanning, seeking more information. “There’s no question mark. And why is ‘uncut’ capitalized?”
“That’syour critique?” She wipes her greasy hand with a flimsy taco place napkin. “Clearly you have the luxury of thousands of profiles of nice, normal women at your disposal.”
He looks up, narrowing his eyes. “Then why aren’t I spending time with nice, normal women right now?”
“You’re probably disqualifying them for completely petty reasons.” Everything she’s deduced about his ex and the other nameless previous relationships he’s vaguely referenced seems to indicate thatyes,he absolutely does have a history of dating lovely women with real jobs, who actually readThe New Yorkerand don’t let all the issues pile up for several months before going through them and skimming only the movie reviews and the cartoons. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I could be trapped for hours at some mediocre restaurant with someone who doesn’t respect the rules of grammar.”
“Whenever I got stuck on a really bad date, my friend Gabe would show up at the restaurant and pretend to accuse me of cheating on him. It brings the date to a screeching halt, while eliminating any chance of future contact.”
