He glances at the bag over my shoulder. “Headed back to work?”
“No. I made too much by accident, so I’m gonna drop some at my friend’s house. She’s at 103 and Lex.”
He frowns. “Trains are terrible today because of all that rain this morning. I guess there’s flooding in the system.”
I quickly take out my phone and check the recommended route. “Yeesh. You’re right. It says I should take the B and then walk across the park. Maybe I’ll drive—Never mind, traffic ishorrific.Dang.”
So I’m looking at a twenty-minute train ride and then a twenty-five-minute walk. With a five-pound lasagna.
“You got a sec for me to shower? I’ll go with you. Carry the food.”
“Oh.” Maybe it’s because he’s standing there, big and bearded and dusty, but the offer makes my stomach flip. “Not much of a relaxing night for you…”
He shrugs.
“Okay. Sure, then. If you’re sure.”
He nods and then crouches down to take off his boots. The laces make little snappy noises as he slides them out of theworn-shiny divots across the tongues. I make note of his shoulder placement, his knee bent like that, I’d never get the hands right, even if I were to get him to freeze exactly like that for an hour.
Once I hear him kick the shower on, I grab my drawing pad and try to draw that pose from memory. It’s a bird’s nest of lines, as I search and search for the right ratios and proportions. It’s discouraging. So instead, I turn my eye to the boots he’s left on the front mat.
They’re high-quality and a million years old. He’s had them re-soled twice. The leather loyally retains the shape of his foot no matter how long he’s been gone. They’re set on the ground in the exact footprint of his, well, footprints, and even if they sit there overnight, or two weeks, they always give the impression of Vin havingjustbeen there. I choose my smoothest lead and the pencil curves on the page the way the heel curves away from me, into nothingness. I pool the laces, tip up the toes toward the ceiling. The shower shuts off and I jump. This is a decent drawing.
Vin Home from WorkI title it.
“Ready?” He’s damp and tugging a T-shirt over his head. I catch a glimpse of his stomach. It occurs to me that people probably see him on the street and have daydreams about his sexual competence.
It’s slightly cool out—one of those sweet summer days, like a drink of cold water in the warm sun—and as we get off the train at Central Park, he points across the street to a little café with gigantic bunches of eucalyptus in baskets out front.
“You want a cup of tea for the walk?” he asks.
I’m still slightly ill over the wasted seventy-five dollars this weekend, so I shake my head no.
He reads my mind with a laugh. “Roz, it’s a buck fifty.”
He hands me the lasagna and comes back across the streetthree minutes later with a steaming paper cup and a scowl on his face. “Apparently it’s three-fifty now. For hot water and a bag of grass clippings.”
“Thank you for my grass clippings.” I’m absurdly happy to get a cup of herbal tea from the hands of my husband.
Vin’s phone rings as he takes back the lasagna. “It’s Raff.”
“Go ahead.”
He answers and I listen as they catch up. His brow is furrowed when they hang up.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
He nods as we enter the park, green and blooming, just starting to dim with sunset. There are little kids in giant backpacks, teenagers on motorized scooters screaming with laughter, a pack of elderly women tiptoe-jogging at a clip. “Yeah.” He glances at me. “I think he’s lonely.”
“He was having fun at his party.” I supply this, but it feels a little thin.
“Okay, so maybe not lonely…But searching? I get the feeling he’s been looking for something he can’t find.”
Perfectly said.
Maybe he should move back in,something in me tries to say. I practically have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from saying it.
“He keeps talking about Marine…” Vin says, like he’s finishing a thought.
