“I thought you were going to the Riviera with Renaldo.”
“Well he bailed, and then Jacques texted that he was in town and voilà. New plans!”
I sit down on my bed. I look around. The tufted gray chairs I bought with my first paycheck at Clarknell, the oak dresser that was a hand-me-down from my parents’ place. The Bakelite lamps David brought with him from his Turtle Bay bachelor pad.
I see the expanse of that loft in Dumbo. The blue velvet chairs.
“Hey,” I say. “I have to tell you something kind of crazy.”
“Tell me everything!” she hollers through the phone, and I imagine her spinning out in the middle of a dance floor, on the roof of some Parisian hotel, Jacques tugging at her waist.
“I’m not sure how to explain it. I fell asleep, and... I wasn’t dreaming. I swear I was in this apartment and this guy was there. It was so real. Like I really went there. Has anything like that ever happened to you?”
“No, darling, we’re going to the Marais!”
“What?”
“Sorry, everyone in the crowd is absolutely starving, and it’s practically light out. We’ve been partying for decades. So wait, it was like a dream? Did he do it on the terrace or in the restaurant?” I hear an explosion of sound and then a door shut, a retreat to silence.
“Oh, the restaurant,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything when you’re back.”
“I’m here, I’m here!” she says.
“You’re not,” I say, smiling. “Be safe, okay?”
I can see her rolling her eyes. “Do you know that the French don’t even have a word for safety?”
“That is not even remotely true,” I say. “Beaucoup.” It’s pretty much one of the only French words I know.
“Even so,” she says. “I wish you had more fun.”
“I have fun,” I say.
“Let me guess. David is now watching CNN Live and you’re wearing a face mask. You just gotengaged!”
I touch my fingers to my cheek. “Only dry skin here.”
“How was the job interview?” she asks. “I didn’t forget, I just temporarily forgot.”
“It was great, honestly. I think I got it.”
“Of course you got it. You not getting it would require a rip in the universe that I’m not sure is scientifically possible.”
I feel my stomach tighten.
“Boozy brunch when I’m back,” she says. The door opens again and sound rushes back in through the phone. I hear her kiss someone twice.
“You know I hate brunch,” I say.
“But you love me.”
She hangs up, in a whirlwind of noise.
David comes into the bedroom, his hair rumpled. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.
“You tired?” he asks me.
“Not really,” I say.
