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“Fuck! I mean f...I mean, I don’t know.”
But her voice—I’d assume she’s named Emilia, but who even knows anymore—stays fixed just outside our door. Even after she finishes yelling, her voice is so loud, it’s making the entire hallway quiver. The latest in a series of realizations to hit me is that our bedroom isn’t going to be far enough to escape this little show being produced in the hallway.
“I need to deal with this, Thomas. Just meet me in the other room.”
“It’ll deal with itself. And which other room?”
“Oh, for…never goddamn mind.”
For the second time in the last half hour, I throw open the apartment door to deal with whatever bizarre scene is trying to play itself out outside. If the last one was wearing pajamas, I fully expect to see an even weirder costume in the hallway this time—if not a full-on goddamn Halloween parade.
“The peephole could save you a lot of trouble next time, my love.”
“Other room, Thomas.”
While growling that response to the lurking spouse behind me, I come within a mohair scarf’s breadth of gasping at what’s in the hallway in front of me.
“Oh, I was expecting to see something much less normal.”
The young w…the woman staring down the corridor turns her head to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Sigh. I apologize, dear. Things have been quite...lively around here lately. I’m sure I’ve seen you around here before. How good to see a familiar face!”
Maybe-Emilia, who I have seen around the Bradford lobby before, is now looking me up and down—and trying to suppress a laugh.
“Are you in character for a play or something? Tony and Tina’s Wedding or some kinda shit like that?”
“Oh…no, is that what was happening earlier out
here?”
“Uh, no. I was just having a fi—an argument with this guy…I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore. I can’t help but assume that it’s always gonna be bullshit, you know? Like, I can’t let myself keep falling for the same old…”
“It’s not part of the pajama thing, then?”
Emilia can’t suppress her laughter anymore. “Lady, I appreciate the laugh right now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means I can close the door without being too rude. Which is exactly what I do.
“She’s the one doing the performance thing, right?” I ask Thomas.
“I’m quite confident that was real and also that you just slammed the door in her face. But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”
The smile sneaks up on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from grinning, feeling the mischief spread across my face. That roguish feeling is taking over me entirely when I turn to my husband, a bit amused himself with my behavior.
“So, Thomas, as the French say, are we going to go into the other fucking room or not?”
“It’s quiet now. We can talk here.”
“Can we, smart guy?”
“Now you think I’m smart?”
“Not smart enough to spot sarcasm…”
“You know our martinis are still waiting for us, right? Why don’t we make that Step One?”
