I do not get out for thirty-one minutes because the woman upstairs is the woman I am going to walk into the rest of my life with, and I am going to do it right.
I get out at 9:42.
I find the buzzer panel. I find 4F. I press it.
Her voice. "Yes?"
"It's me."
The door buzzes.
Her door opensbefore I have raised my hand to knock.
She is in jeans. A black t-shirt. Hair down. Damp at the ends. No shoes. She has been showering off the federal interview, and she has been waiting, and the waiting is in her face only for the half second between hearing my step on the landing and opening the door. After that, the face is the face. The consigliera's face. The face she wears for me.
But the half-second was the half-second.
The half second is mine.
"You're early."
"I was outside."
"How long?"
"Half an hour."
"You should have come up."
"I was deciding whether I had the right to."
She looks at me.
"You have the right to."
"I know that now."
"Come in."
I come in.
The loft is a loft. Tall windows. Cobblestone visible through one. The Brooklyn Bridge through another. A kitchen open to the living area. A bookshelf I will look at later. A photograph on the wall that I will look at later.
A Chemex on the counter.
I stop.
It is not the Chemex from the cabin.
It is not the Chemex from West 12th.
She watches me look at it.
"How many of these do you own?"
"Three. One per address."
"Nadia."
