|
61.
Manhattan
Blue climbed from the neon-lit rail station under the city, up the subway stairs with their glistening tile walls, to the night-time street. Familiar traffic noises of her neighborhood: passing car, distant horn, slammed door. Cold wind pinpricked her cheeks with hints of new snow as she crossed the street and trudged past dark, silent doorsteps. In the brightly lit entrance of her apartment building, she checked her mail box. Nothing. She climbed the stairs, for the elevator was, as always, broken. A window slammed. A bag of trash sort of missed the dumpster in the central courtyard with shattering glass. Blue went two steps at a time on the last two landings. She extricated her apartment key, which she kept pinned inside her jacket.
Light shone under the door, and the Grundigs oozed out a symphony. Mozart? She wasn't sure, and it didn't matter; she always left the stereo on as a protection against burglars. She unlocked the door. The warmth of her apartment, her home, met her with a welcome glow. She kicked the door shut behind her. "Hello, kitchen. Hello, refrigerator." As if in answer, the refrigerator shook once, twice, and rumbled into life. Mozart rocked on in the bedroom, wave upon wave of violins, violas, and oboes over the bass-rich speakers. She piled clothes on a chair. Kicked shoes off. "Hello, music. Hello, old tea kettle." She touched the kettle. "Ouch!" Waved her finger, pulling a tea cup out of the cupboard. Tossed in a bag of Lipton's. Spoon of sugar. Poured from the kettle. Set the tea aside to steep. Felt something against her leg. "Hello, Fontainebleu." She bent down and rubbed his ear. As cats did, he winced away, but purred enthusiastically. "Hi, I'm home!" she called. In the bedroom, John looked up from a book. He turned down the stereo. She captured a mental snapshot of him as he had been the moment she entered: Unaware of her, absorbed in the book; stretched on her bed among the stuffed animals, a sheet pulled up over his otherwise nude lean body; concentrating; reading glasses (a secret only newly revealed) making him look older, bookish; hair tousled; foamed neck brace making his face look scrunched because his head was up on the Garfield pillow. "I didn't hear you come in," he said, putting the book aside. "It's about a million degrees in here." He stretched out his arms.
She sat on the edge of the bed, let him growl and bear hug her. "It's always a million degrees in here."
He pulled her close. Unbuttoned her shirt. She drew in a tight, delicious quick breath as he bit her earlobe. "MMMmmm..."
"You smell cold. Like fresh air." He kissed her pointing nipples. "Cold." He lifted the sheet, and she climbed underneath. "Fontainebleu seems happy."
"I think he misses his canyon, but I think he'll enjoy being a Manhattan house cat for a while." She kicked the jeans away and pressed closed to him, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other hand explored the stored warmth of his body. He wore, she quickly discovered, nothing at all.
He kissed her cheek, her nose, her lips. "I want to be part of your world, Blue. I want to stay in your life."
She cleared her throat. "Well, you can stay as long as you like." The boxes were still there, after all, because that was who she was, how she was, but the padlocks seemed to all be open and strewn about.
|
