Two days pass. He's not at the bodega.
The first morning, I walk in and scan the room before I realize I'm scanning it. He's not there. Just Hector and an old man reading a newspaper and the coffee machine gurgling. Iorder my coffee and leave and tell myself the dip in my stomach is hunger, not disappointment.
The second morning, same thing. He's not there. Not on the street either—I walk the route between my apartment and the studio and he's nowhere. The neighborhood has his shape cut out of it, a man-sized absence that I keep noticing.
By the third morning, I'm angry. Not at him—at myself. Because I'm looking for him. Actively, consciously looking for a man in the same streets where I complained about him being too present, too precise, too much. He's gone and I want him back and the hypocrisy of that makes me want to scream.
I call Tess on Thursday night because I need to say it out loud or I'm going to lose my mind.
"Something happened," I say.
Silence on her end. Then: "With the neighborhood guy."
"With Damien. Yes."
"Define something."
"He came to the studio. Wednesday night. Late. And he—we—" I close my eyes. "He kissed me."
More silence. Then Tess says, very carefully, "He came to your studio late at night."
"Yes."
"Uninvited."
"I lifted the door."
"But he came uninvited."
"Yes."
"Jess." Her voice has shifted—still warm, but with a layer of something underneath. Not quite alarm. Caution. "That's—how do you feel about that?"
"I don't know. Confused. Angry. Like I've been plugged into a wall socket and the voltage is too high." I press my phone against my ear. "He's not there anymore. He hasn't been at the bodega in days. He just—disappeared."
"Do you have his number?"
"No."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"No."
"What does he do for a living?"
"Consulting. Corporate something. He was vague about it."
The pause that follows is long enough for me to hear exactly how it sounds. A man I can't reach, can't locate, don't have a number for, who showed up at my studio at 11 PM and kissed me and vanished.
"I know how it sounds," I say.
"It sounds like you need more information before you do anything else." Her voice is gentle. "I'm not saying he's bad, Jess. I'm saying you don't know enough yet. And the kiss—the kiss happened in your studio in the middle of the night. That's intense. That's—a lot. And you don't even have his phone number."
She's right. She's completely, infuriatingly right.
"If he comes back," she says, "get his number. Find out where he lives. Ask him real questions and don't accept vague answers. You deserve to know who you're kissing."
After we hang up, I sit on my bed and look at the jacket. It's still on the bad hanger, on the back of the door. The fabric has taken on the shape of the hanger now—the shoulders bent slightly, the collar turned up.
