* * *
Well,the good news is that I’m not selling my body or dealing drugs. The bad news is that I have to wear a wedding dress and hand out fliers up and down West 8th to advertise a bridal boutique.
It’s been three days now and I have to admit, it’s alittlehumiliating. Especially the dress; it’s polyester and taffeta and just plain unflattering. It smells like it’s been worn bymanypeople before me, and it itches, so I have to wear a white tank top and leggings underneath. But it’s not just that. The irony of wearing a wedding dress every day when I’m feeling ready to give up on love is not lost on me.
I’m trying to be positive, though, because it has some unexpected perks. I mean, with all that walking up and down the street I’m getting in a lot of steps, so that has to be good for me. And it gives me several hours to just think.
Today, I thought about my writing. I used to write a blog a few years ago—mostly about dating and how shit it was—and I was thinking I might try writing on there again, just to warm up. That’s my plan for tonight: write a blog post about moving to the city.
But first, dinner. I spot a pizza place on the walk home to Cat’s apartment after work. After popping back to change out of my white leggings and tank (thankfully, I don’t have to walk home in the hideous wedding dress), I head out to grab one.
I take the massive pizza box from the counter with an embarrassed smile. Apparently ordering a whole pizza for one was a mistake. It’shuge. In New Zealand a pizza is about the size of a dinner plate. This pizza is bigger than a manhole cover. By the time I get back to the building my arms are starting to ache with the effort of carrying the damn thing.
I’m about to step into the apartment when I hear an odd noise coming from upstairs. It kind of sounds like crying, but I can’t be sure. With the pizza box hot in my hands, I climb a couple of steps until I can peek onto the next floor. Sitting in the hall, clutching a book and backpack, is a boy, around ten years old. His legs are crossed and he’s sitting with his back leaning against a door, like he’s waiting for someone.
I climb another step and clear my throat so he knows I’m there. He glances up, quickly wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Hi. Are you okay?”
He nods, looking down at his hands. I think he’s embarrassed I’ve caught him crying, so I try to say something reassuring.
“It’s okay to cry if you’re upset. I cried not that long ago because my boyfriend wanted to break up, so then I decided to move to New York and—” I break off with a cringe. Probably best to leave it there.
He gives me a peculiar look.
Okay, so that wasn’t the right approach. He must think I’m some kind of maniac, cornering him in the hallway and bleating on about crying.
My gaze drops to the book in his hands. It’s Bill Bryson’sA Short History of Nearly Everything. “Are you reading that?”
“Yes.”
“Woah,” I say, impressed. “That’s difficult reading for someone so young.”
He shrugs. “We read a lot in my family.”
I take another step up. “Yeah, well, reading is awesome. Where are you up to?”
“Um, I’ve just started. It’s taking me a while.”
“You know, I think there’s a kids’ version of that book.”
“I know.” He frowns. “But it was too easy.”
I chuckle. This kid likes a challenge.
“Where are you from?” he asks, finally looking at me properly. He has chocolate-colored eyes and a brown fringe—sorry,bangsis what they call them here—slanting across his forehead.
“New Zealand. Do you know where that is?”
He frowns again. “Of course.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I don’t imagine American kids learn much about New Zealand.
We lapse into awkward silence, me standing halfway up the staircase holding a pizza box, him sitting in the hall with his book and backpack.
“So, why are you sitting out here?” I ask eventually. I want to ask why he was crying but don’t want to embarrass him again.
“I’m waiting for Dad to get home. He’s running late.”
