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Back in my room, I fall asleep with the same feeling in my chest and wake up to the thought of her. Always do. The only thing that mars my happiness is the thought that my feelings are one-sided and soon, this will all end.
It makes every day special. Including my little white monster.
Pushkin’s morning runs with me are now a daily thing. My shithead actuallyruns. Practice makes perfect. He’s getting into shape and becoming a local celebrity with his fashion outfits and eye patches.
I stick around the house in the mornings too, wanting more of Lu and soaking in every detail about her.
Breakfasts and coffee together become a routine, considering Lu gets up much earlier lately.
I do ask her about her uncle.
She shrugs. “He’s disappeared again. I hadn’t seen him in years until that night I passed out on the street and met you. I can’t get ahold of him either.”
That’s bad news. Not because we are back to square one, but because Roey might pull me out of the condo and back to the Sheepshead Bay apartment, though I’m not ready to move out.
I tell him that, too.
“Reznik might just reappear in Lu’s life again,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I’m staying there for now. If there’s a chance of running into him at her place, we have to take it. It’s a five-million-dollar chance, right?”
I avoid eye contact with Roey, because he senses something is going on with me.
But because he’s my best friend, I end up telling him a gazillion things about Lu.
“She was so happy to make grits for me,” I say. “I couldn’t bear seeing her sad if I said no to them.” I smile as I meet his gaze. “What?”
Roey stares at me with a puzzled look, then sticks a cigarette between his lips. “I see where this is going.”
I feel awkward as if I got caught doing something dirty.
Roey lights the cigarette, exhales a cloud of smoke out the open window, and says, “Bacon.”
“What?” I’m confused.
“Everything tastes better with bacon. Buy bacon so you can survive her grits.”
Noted.
I do.
The more time Lu and I spend together, the more she gets in my head and makes a home there.
As she promised, she educates me about art, sits me down on the couch one day, takes a seat next to me, and shows me art albums.
“Nude Descending a Staircase.” She points at one image.
Alright, we’re starting with a weird one.
And then dozens more follow.
Picasso—I like this guy. Modernism reminds me of her friend Becky’s outfits on her social media. Pollock, Rothko, Warhol, Basquiat. I won’t remember all the names, but that’s not even the point. Lu would be disappointed that I’m way more excited about her bare knees brushing against my jeans than the actual prominent artists as she explains to me different art movements.
“Can we make this a daily class?” I ask. “This art thing?”
I chuckle when she catches me glancing at her legs right up against my thigh, and she laughs. “Sure.”
Turns out, the weird Eastern European foods beat the crazy art.
“Is there any food you don’t like?” she asks with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
