On The Verge. Ariella Papa

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      “Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”

      “Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.

      The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.

      “I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”

      “Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.

      “You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.

      “Are you looking for someone?”

      “No.”

      “Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”

      “Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.

      “Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.

      “Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.

      When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.

      “But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”

      “That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”

      From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.

      “Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.”

      “Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)

      “So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”

      “Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?

      “What?”

      “I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.

      “Really?”

      He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”

      “The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”

      “No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”

      “What, that book?”

      “It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think I am starting to realize is that I am not going to have sex this evening and who knows how long it will be again.

      “Zeke, maybe you’re getting a little excited.”

      “That’s just it, Eve! You don’t understand!” He actually slams his hand on the table when he says this. Several diners turn to look at us. The waitress hurries over to see if she can get us the check.

      “Yes, get the check.” I offer Zeke money, but he won’t take it. I was going to head to Tabitha’s, but in the absence of a good lay, I think I want nothing more than my own bed. Zeke gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and hops in a cab.

      I ride home alone on the bus, because I missed the train. Again. This pathetic feeling is reason enough to move out.

      My parents and Rosie are circled around the TV. I assure my mother I took a car home and Rosie seems a little too smug, knowing my date must have gone dreadfully wrong.

      I go up to my room and feign sleep when Rosie comes in. She says my name, but I ignore her. Wasn’t I beautiful? Didn’t I taste delicious and eat sexily? What happened to all that? One blast of reality and Zeke is a goner.

      We should have gone for Italian, I would have done wonders with spaghetti.

      I don’t talk to Roseanne about Zeke for a few days. She’s got her own problems stressing about a job and searching for an apartment. I found this one on the Net and convinced her we should go after I got out of work. I’ve taken a new policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If she gets a job she will undoubtedly tell me. Until then I will neither inquire about her search, nor offer constructive criticism about things like not wearing such a glossy lipstick or how much nicer her black pantsuit looks than the cotton-lycra skirt set.

      The Realtor, Craig, gives us a little attitude about being late for our appointment. There was a subway delay. I give him attitude right back. Roseanne says nothing. I hope she isn’t this quiet and miserable on job interviews, but remember, I am beyond advice.

      The apartment is not exactly near the subway, but I guess it’s still considered “in the vicinity.” Craig is very elusive about this apartment. Since Roseanne won’t talk (again), I have to be the spokeswoman. “So how is the place?”

      “It’s great and so charming.” Okay, small—I gathered that from the ad. And I am sure the advertised EIK (that’s Eat In Kitchen, for you nonresidents) is minuscule. Craig chats up the apartment all the way there. He must feel guilty about the ridiculous fee that Realtors charge and somehow hopes to feel like he’s earning his money. Whatever.

      We turn onto this nice block. I’m not jazzed about the Upper East Side and the only reason I’m checking out this place is because I feel bad about making Rosie do all this work in her fragile state. Despite all the telltale signs from the ad that it would suck (EIK, charming, 1BR converted, prewar), I suggested we check it out so I could put in some effort.

      We stop at a really nice brownstone. I am fighting that hopeful feeling but, I can’t help thinking that this could be it. I look to Rosie, who is staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. I didn’t want to do this alone. I take a deep breath.

      “Okay,” says Craig, stopping in front of the building, beginning his hard sell. “Now, it will be painted before you move in.” Don’t get too far ahead of yourself there, buddy. But, wait, he is headed downstairs! Downstairs? No one said anything about a basement apartment.

      He opens the СКАЧАТЬ