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“For that you’ll get baby’s breath. Try the deli down the street.”
At the deli, I settle on a hideous bunch of multicolored flowers in unnatural hues of pink, purple, and green.
Back home, I put the flowers in a tall glass and place them next to Samantha’s bed. The flowers may make Samantha happy, but I can’t shake my own feeling of dread. I keep thinking about L’il and how Viktor Greene ruined her life.
At loose ends, I look doubtfully at the bed. Although not much has happened in it recently, besides the consumption of crackers and cheese, I should wash the sheets. The Laundromat’s creepy, though. All kinds of crimes take place between the washers and dryers. Muggings and stolen clothes and fisticuffs over possession of the machines. Nevertheless, I dutifully strip the bed, stuffing the black sheets into a pillowcase that I sling over my shoulder.
The Laundromat is harshly lit but not crowded. I buy a package of soap from a vending machine and tear it open, the sharp particles of detergent making me sneeze. I stuff the sheets into the washer and sit on top, staking my claim.
What is it about the Laundromat that’s so depressing?
Is it the simple reality of literally exposing your dirty laundry to strangers as you shove it quickly in and out of the washer, hoping no one will notice your ragged underpants and polyester sheets? Or is it a sign of defeat? Like you never managed to make it into a building with its own basement laundry room.
Maybe Wendy had a point about New York, after all. No matter what you think you can be, when you’re forced to stop and look at where you actually are, it’s pretty depressing.
Sometimes there’s no escaping the truth.
Two hours later, when I’m hauling my clean laundry up the steps to the apartment, I discover Miranda on the landing, crying into a copy of the New York Post.
Oh no. Not again. What is it about the last two days? I put down my sack. “Marty?”
She nods once and lowers the newspaper in shame. On the floor next to her, the top of an open bottle of vodka juts from a small paper bag. “I couldn’t help it. I had to,” she says, explaining the alcohol.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” I say, unlocking the door. “Bastard.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.” She gets up and takes a brave step before her face crumples in pain. “Oh God. It hurts, Carrie. Why does it hurt so much?”
* * *
“I don’t understand. I thought everything was great,” I say, lighting a cigarette as I prepare to bring my best powers of relationship analysis to the situation.
“I thought we were having fun.” Miranda chokes back tears. “I’ve never had fun with a guy before. And then, this morning when we got up, he was acting strange. He had this kind of sick smile on his face while he was shaving. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to be one of those girls who are always asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ I was trying to do everything right, for once.”
“I’m sure you were—”
Outside, there’s a rumble of thunder.
She wipes her cheek. “Even though he wasn’t really my type, I thought I was making progress. I told myself I was breaking the pattern.”
“At least you tried,” I say soothingly. “Especially since you don’t even like guys. When I met you, you didn’t want to have anything to do with them, remember? And it was cool. Because when you really think about it, guys are kind of a big waste of time.”
Miranda sniffs. “Maybe you’re right.” But in the next second, a fresh round of tears clouds her eyes. “I used to be strong. But then I was taken in by . . .” She struggles to find the words. “I was betrayed by . . . my own beliefs. I guess I thought I was tougher than I am. I thought I could spot a creep a mile away.”
A crack of lightning makes us both jump.
“Oh, sweetie.” I sigh. “When a guy wants to get you in bed, he’s always on his best behavior. On the other hand, he did want to be with you all the time. So he must have really been crazy about you.”
“Or maybe he was using me for my apartment. Because my apartment is bigger than his. And I don’t have any roommates. He had this one roommate, Tyler. Said he was always farting and calling everyone a ‘fag.’”
“But it doesn’t make sense. If he was using you for your apartment, why would he break up with you?”
“How should I know?” She pulls her knees to her chest. “Last night, when we were having sex, I should have known something was wrong. Because the sex was very . . . strange. Nice, but strange. He kept stroking my hair. And looking into my eyes with this sad expression. And then he said, ‘I want you to know that I care about you, Miranda Hobbes. I really do.’”
“He used your full name like that? ‘Miranda Hobbes’?”
“I thought it was romantic,” she snivels. “But this morning, after he’d finished showering, he came out holding his razor and shaving cream and asked me if I had a shopping bag.”
“What?”
