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But knowing people buy things I create? There’s really no high like it, and it makes up for the inconvenience of having to turn sideways and slink against the wall to scoot around the easel to open the window—something I do the second I get home on a sunny afternoon, because the apartment has the distinct whiff of cat.
“Cannoli, darling, what in the world did you do to your litter box?”
The black-and-white cat jumps onto the back of the sofa and stares me down. I did a thing. Clean it.
“For being the runt of the litter, you produce a lot of output,” I mutter, scratching him behind the ears as I scoot around my work in progress to deal with the joys of being the owner of an indoor cat.
I pause and study the watercolor on my easel. It’s girly to the extreme. A pink cocktail in a traditional martini glass, with a whimsical New York City skyline in the background. It’s got distinct Sex and the City vibes, but the watercolor and not-quite-to-scale skyline make it feel softer, the type of scene where you wouldn’t be all that surprised to see a fairy with turquoise wings sitting atop the Empire State Building. Actually—I like that idea. I might add exactly that.
Cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.
“Little does Sebastian Andrews know I take that as a compliment,” I say, glancing at Cannoli.
The cat pauses in cleaning his paw. He didn’t mean it as one.
“I know, I know,” I grumble.
I take care of my litter box duties and change out of my work clothes—a sunny yellow dress and clunky-heeled sandals—into gray joggers and a plain white T-shirt. I dated a sweet coder in college for about a year, and by far the best thing to come out of that relationship was discovering the joys of men’s undershirts. Since I no longer have a guy in my life to swipe them from, I buy the soft and surprisingly affordable tees for myself.
It’s too early for dinner, but I skipped lunch, so I pull out a loaf of bread. Since I’m out of turkey, and Cannoli calls dibs on the tuna, I make myself a budget-friendly peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Leaning against my counter, I take methodical bites and wonder what to do with the rest of my day.
I rarely take Saturdays off—they’re one of Bubbles’s busiest days. But Josh, my newest hire, has been asking for more shifts—and more responsibility—lately, so I’d begged off at three to let him handle the afternoon and evening crowds under May’s watchful supervision.
Robyn’s working too, which is an annoyance for everyone else, but for once, I’m grateful for her infuriatingly extensive champagne knowledge. Josh is a hard worker and great with the customers, in his shy, sweet way, but he doesn’t know much about sparkling wine and is perhaps the only person in existence who actually seeks out Robyn’s lectures. He even carries around a little leather journal and takes notes. It’s very cute.
Three rhythmic knocks, inspired by Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, tap on my door, and I grin, because there’s only one person who knocks on my door that way.
Keva Page is my upstairs neighbor, fellow Big Bang Theory fanatic, and exactly the sort of girlfriend every adult woman needs. Not that I love Rachel any less, but there’s something nice about having someone close enough to pop over whenever she feels like it. Keva filled the gap in my social life when Rachel moved to Queens. Keva is the brash, bold Miranda to my romantic Charlotte with less good hair.
I open the door, and she jumps back from where she’d been about to insert my spare key in the lock. She checks on Cannoli for me when I have to work late at the store. “Hey! You’re home. I was just going to leave this on your counter.” She waggles an open bottle of merlot in her hand. “I’m headed out to Cape May for a job and didn’t want this bad boy to turn to vinegar while I’m gone.”
“Ooh, beach trip! Jealous! You in a rush, or you want to come in for a glass?” I ask.
“Mmm, both,” she says, rolling her red suitcase into my apartment. She hands me the bottle, then walks without hesitation to the cupboard where I keep my wineglasses and pulls down two. “Let’s make it fast, but don’t be chintzy with the pour.”
“Wedding?” I ask as I pour the wine. Keva is the assistant chef for a catering company. Not the kind that brings in big bowls of potato salad and pigs in a blanket, but the fancy kind. Saffron arancini, truffle crab dumplings, and homemade ricotta ravioli with arugula pistachio pesto are some of her latest masterpieces that I was all too happy to taste-test.
In addition to being crazy talented, Keva’s the type of woman who crackles with energy, who declares red her favorite color and owns it. Her lips are always a bright cherry red, and on days when she doesn’t have to work, her nails match. In silent protest to her boring white chef uniform, she’s informed me that she only ever wears red underwear, which probably explains at least in part why her love life is so much better than mine.
