“Not everyone can find someone to be obsessed with for fifty years, ya know what I’m saying?” I tease.
She pooh-poohs me even as Tom looks at her with a playful smile. Whenever he watches her, he takes on the air of a young boy instead of a tall, silver-haired man in pressed pants and a button-down. He’s still as striking today as I bet he was all those years ago when they worked together in a newsroom, where he was the big shot anchor and she was the wild production coordinator he fell for. I can see why her opposing whimsy must’ve been appealing. I never know with them whether I want to be envious or ask them to adopt me.
“I like this green on you,” Meryl says, changing the topic completely, as is always her way, and rubbing her hands across my blazer in a tactile assessment of what I’m wearing. “You know if you want vintage things, I’ve got a whole storage unit filled to the brim with the eighties.”
I smile, not wanting to admit that I’m too much of a coward to wear anything as flamboyant as what Meryl wears.
“You doing okay?” Kwan asks, ignoring Meryl and clearly picking up on something being off with me. Great, my insides must be showing on my outside again.
“I’m a little tired from the day,” I admit, shifting to more generic pastures. “The Tuesday after a long weekend is always hard.”
“Wouldn’t know a Tuesday from a Saturday at this point.” Meryl shrugs.
“You knew it was Memorial Day yesterday, because you were very gracefully pointing out all the many items that were on sale,” Tom murmurs.
“Yes, but isn’t it one of those holidays that falls on a specific date and not on a day of the week? Like Christmas or Veterans Day?MemorialDay? We’re memorializing some specific day, right?”
“I think it’s for veterans,” Kwan points out.
“But there’s already a Veterans Day?” She frowns dramatically and squeezes her eyes shut, like she’s trying to solve a particularly hard math equation in her head.
“Is that different?” Kwan asks.
Tom sighs deeply, like he’s disappointed in both of them. “Veterans Day is for all veterans. Memorial Day is for the veterans who died.”
“But,” Meryl points out, “on Memorial Day we barbecue and on Veterans Day we get all solemn? That doesn’t seem right.”
I can tell she’s now trying to get a rise out of Tom, and he’s clearly going to fall for it, because he’s such a literal person who always falls right into Meryl’s teasing.
And I figure that’s my cue to leave, before this whole conversation devolves more than it already has. Tom, Meryl, and Kwan will probably still be out here in an hour when I come down to take George for a walk. Our building takes neighborly interest to a new level. And I can’t say I mind it; there’s a comfort to this weird little single-structure community amid a giant city.
“I’m gonna go make dinner and take George out. Kwan, let me know if you still need me to take Lucy on Saturday night. I’m happy to do it.”
“Thanks, Nora,” he says, rubbing my arm the way you would to a pet who’s been particularly good. “Such a sweet girl you are.”
“You’re just buttering me up so I take your dog more,” I tease, and his full-throated laugh makes me smile.
“Oh, and Nora,” Tom says, stopping me before I can open the door. “Esther’s unit was turned over to her grandson today. I know you’re right above it, so I figured you’d want to know.”
Well, thatisnews to me. Esther died a few months ago, but I haven’t kept up with what’s happening with the apartment below me. I really admired her, though—Esther was a cantankerous, tough broad. She was apparently one of the first female mathematics professors at NYU, and she remained tenured and teaching classes right up until she passed away.
“The family didn’t sell the place?” I ask. Esther was British, and I knew vaguely that most of her family still lived in the UK, so I’d just assumed there’d soon be another thirtysomething singleton looking to buy her studio apartment.
“No, the grandson is moving in,” Meryl cuts in excitedly. She loves a dose of gossip, so I imagine she’s already pulled up his entire history and we’ll know soon if he’s gotten even a parking ticket. “He’s apparently a writer, so I suppose he can live anywhere. Although I heard he was divorced or separated or something, so maybe he’s fleeing the country.”
“Heard from whom?” Tom asks, seemingly not expecting an answer, because he doesn’t even bat an eye when Meryl cryptically waves him off.
“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” I say as I put my key into the lock and open the door. They all say goodbye, and I’m bolstered as I get in the elevator. This day has felt both exhausting and inspiring, but my neighbors are always entertaining.
I get off the elevator at the tenth and top floor and open my apartment door to the impeccable sound of little feet racing across the wooden floor.
I sit down cross-legged and let George hop onto me, the familiarity of the scene calming down all the confusion from my day.
Maybe other people would think it doesn’t count, but I know George understands me best—even without the ability to tell me in words. He knows me and I know him. He might be the mangiest-looking rescue dog around, and he might hate most people with an indifference that could haunt you, but he’smylittle, particular, mangy pup. He won’t eat food that isn’t a little wet; he’ll pout when it’s cold outside; he growls at pretty much anyone. But he suits me. He doesn’t smile and jump around like an enthusiastic show monkey; he lets me brood when I need to; he doesn’t seem to mind when I need to veg; he curls up on my lap when he senses I need affection, without fanfare or chatting. He gets me.
I rescued him after a solo trip I took following a breakup with a boring guy I’d stayed with too long. I went on the trip to try and reflect on what I was doing wrong, but the main takeaway was that I just really needed a dog. I strolled by a rescue event and saw so many cute puppies and boundlessly happy dogs getting attention, while George—this all-black, stocky dog with one white paw—was curled up in the corner, ignoring everyone.
Something about his disinterested nonchalance struck me as something I could use more of in my life. When I asked about him, the volunteer warned me that he was so irritable he was already on Prozac. I found it hilarious that a dog could take the same medication as humans while also feeling a bit defensive that someone would think anyone was lesser than for needing a bit of anxiety medication. But it made him feel even more right. I could protect him from the anxieties of the world, and he could teach me how to not give a shit about what others think. It seemed like kismet.
