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“Yes?” he asks cautiously, his eyes going past me to the hallway.
“I’m going to write a play!”
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t mind? It’s not a short story or a poem—”
“As long as it’s about family,” he says quickly.
“It will be.” I nod. “I’m thinking it should be about this couple. They’ve been married for a few years and they hate each other—”
Viktor stares at me blankly. It appears he has nothing more to say. I stand awkwardly for a moment then add, “I’ll get started right away.”
“Good idea.” It’s now patently clear he wants me out of there. I give him a little wave as I exit.
I run right into L’il. “Carrie!” She flushes.
“I’m going to write a play,” I inform her excitedly. “Viktor says it’s okay.”
“That’s perfect for you. I can’t wait to read it.”
“I’ve got to write it first.”
She steps to the side, trying to get around me.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly. “Want to have dinner with me and my friend Miranda?”
“I’d love to, but—”
Viktor Greene comes out of his office. L’il glances up at him. “You sure?” I ask, pressing her. “Miranda’s really interesting. And we’re going to go to one of those cheap Indian places on Sixth Street. Miranda says she knows the best ones—”
L’il blinks as she focuses her attention back on me. “All right. I guess I could—”
“Meet me on Fourteenth and Broadway at eight-thirty. And afterward, we can go to this party,” I say over my shoulder.
I leave L’il and Viktor standing there, staring at me like I’m a mugger who has suddenly decided to spare them.
Chapter Twelve
I write three pages of my play. It’s all about Peggy and her lover—the guy who took those naughty photos—whom I’ve named Moorehouse. Peggy and Moorehouse are having an argument about toilet paper. I think it’s pretty funny and pretty real—I mean, what couple doesn’t argue about toilet paper—and I actually feel satisfied with my work.
At eight o’clock, I pick up Miranda at her house. Miranda’s lucky—she has an old aunt who lives in a small, run-down townhouse, consisting of four floors and a basement, where Miranda lives. The basement has its own entrance and two windows just below the sidewalk. It would be perfect but for the fact that it’s damp and perpetually dark.
I ring the bell, thinking about how I love the way I can walk to my friend
s’ apartments and how my life has this frenetic, unstructured pace where I never know exactly what’s going to happen. Miranda opens the door, her hair still wet from the shower. “I’m not ready.”
“That’s okay.” I stroll past her and plop onto an ancient sofa covered in worn damask. Miranda’s aunt used to be rich, about thirty years ago. Then her husband took off with another woman and left her flat broke, except for the house. The aunt worked as a waitress and put herself through school and now she’s a professor of Women’s Studies at NYU. The apartment is filled with books like Woman, Culture, and Society and Women: A Feminist Perspective. I always think the best part about Miranda’s apartment is the books. The only books Samantha has are astrology, self-help, and The Kama Sutra. Other than those, she mostly reads magazines.
Miranda goes into her room to change. I light a cigarette and idly survey the bookshelves, picking out a book by Andrea Dworkin. It falls open and I read the following: “just some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his piss running down your legs . . .”
“What’s that?” Miranda asks, peering over my shoulder. “Oh. I love that book.”
“Really? I just read this part about semen caked on you—”
“And what about the part when it oozes out and runs down your leg?”
“Says here, it’s pee.”
