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L’il doesn’t seem to share my overweening interest in other people. Perhaps she’s so confident in her own talents, she feels like she doesn’t need to. I, on the other hand, could easily spend the entire day engaged in gossip, which I prefer to call “character analysis.” Unfortunately, you can’t engage in character analysis by yourself. I go back into my cubbyhole, sit down at my desk, roll a piece of paper into my typewriter, and sit there.
Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there, staring at the wall. There’s only one window in our area, and it’s in L’il’s room. Feeling like I’m suffocating, I get up
, go into the living room, and look out the window there.
Peggy’s apartment is in the back of the building, facing the back of another nearly identical building on the next street. Maybe I could get a telescope and spy on the apartments across the way. I could write a story about the residents. Unfortunately, the denizens of that building appear to be as dull as we are. I spot the flickering blue screen of a television set, a woman washing the dishes, and a sleeping cat.
I sigh, feeling thwarted. There’s a whole world out there and I’m stuck in Peggy’s apartment. I’m missing everything. And now I only have fifty-nine days left.
I’ve got to make something happen.
I race to my cubby, grab Bernard’s number, and pick up the phone.
I hesitate, considering what I’m about to do, and put it down.
“L’il?” I call out.
“Yes?”
“Should I call Bernard Singer?”
L’il comes to the door. “What do you think?”
“What if he doesn’t remember me?”
“He gave you his number, didn’t he?”
“But what if he didn’t mean it? What if he was only being polite? What if—”
“Do you want to call him?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Then do.” L’il is very decisive. It’s a quality I hope to develop in myself someday.
And before I can change my mind, I dial.
“Y-ello,” he says, after the third ring.
“Bernard?” I say, in a voice that’s way too high. “It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Aha. Had a feeling it might be you.”
“You did?” I curl the phone cord around my finger.
“I’m a bit psychic.”
“Do you have visions?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.
“Feelings,” he murmurs sexily. “I’m very in touch with my feelings. What about you?”
“I guess I am too. I mean, I never seem to be able to get rid of them. My feelings.”
He laughs. “What are you doing right now?”
“Me?” I squeak. “Well, I’m just kind of sitting here trying to write—”
“Want to come over?” he asks suddenly.
