I don’t think I’m nailing this impression of myself.
I rinse my clothes in his bathroom sink and he passes in a folded-up pair of light green sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I freeze, arms halfway through sleeves and head buried in cloth. Because this sweatshirt smells like Vin. I would bet my life savings that he’s recently worn these clothes.
I finish getting dressed and then look at myself in the mirror. Cozy, mussed, swimming in cloth, smelling like my husband: I’ve been here before. Many times. But in happier circumstances.
“Did Vin wear these?” I ask Raff (in my normal voice, thank you very much) as I reemerge.
His brow comes down. “Those are his.”
I look down at the clothes again. Spring green, hope green, I bet his eyes sparkle like a fucking disaster in this color. I do not recognize these clothes.
“He brought them over to wear when he slept here last night,” Raff says, with the slight tang ofduhin his voice.
“Right.” I eye the rest of the treacherous sauce on the stove. It bubbles in the pot like a potion.
I shouldn’t care. It would be so much easier if I just didn’t care. But…
“Did—” I clear my throat. “Did he eat before he left?”
“Nah. He said he wasn’t hungry.”
I watch the sauce bubble. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it. But he eats literally anything I cook. I guess not anymore.
I stand here in his clothes from yesterday. Because he slept here. Clothes I don’t recognize.
I’ll go.
“I’m actually—” I clear my throat again. “I’m actually not very hungry either.”
“Are you sure? Big night ahead of us.” He’s serving himself an obscenely large bowl.
“Wait, really? Oh no. It’s not funtivities, is it?”
Raffi has recently become obsessed with Groupon. Which sort of makes sense. He’s extremely excitable. He’d be the one leading the standing ovation at the octogenarian choir concert, et cetera. And now he’s become very excited about dragging me around New York to experience all our city has to offer (on a budget).
In the last two months we’ve already gotten dubious pedicures in the East Village ($14.50 apiece), fed the budgies at the Bronx Zoo (8 bucks apiece and patently terrifying), and gone to see bad stand-up (25 dollars apiece and Raff went home with one of the comics).
So why am I doing all of these terrible activities? Am I really just that supportive of a pal?
No.
I’m doing it because where else do I really have to be? Home? Obviously not.
At this point, if Raffi used a Groupon for us to get our leg hair tweezed off hair by hair, I’d go with him. Just to spend time with someone with a teaspoon of affection for me. Just to get the hell out of my silent apartment.
Which is why, an hour later, I have an enormous goblet of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.
“Excuse me. Are we supposed to be painting what the instructor is painting? Or is this, like, free-form?”
Raffi and I turn to the woman who has just addressed us. She’s looking worriedly between her painting and ours. Hers looks very similar to the instructor’s, who is, in fact, providing a step-by-step of how to turn a white canvas into a non-ironic sunset over a titanium ocean. “I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood,” the woman further prompts.
If she’s looking to our work for guidance, I can see why she’s worried.
I’ve decided that sunsets are a little too on the nose for me and, perhaps with that drawing class in mind, have embarked, instead, on an all-blue portrait of Raff’s profile. He looks like Cookie Monster.
Raff, to his credit, has done a sunset. He’s just added a sinking oil tanker. As I watch, he beaches a whale in the sand.
“You’re doing great,” I assure the woman. “We’re just absurd.”
