When you’re in my line of work, there’s a ninety percent chance that whatever you set out to cook, you’re going to end up with bean soup.
Deb has to toss one of her students who came to class drunk. Cherise is fighting with a vendor over the phone.
I leave work in a foul mood. The train is crowded and loud. I’m finally headed up the street to our building when the toe of my sneaker catches the curb and I totally bite it.
I’m fine, definitely fine. But the shock from the fall punches up from the ground and through my arms. My palms throb and so do my shoulders. I’m on all fours on the street like a total klutz and two high school kids stand about five feet away and stare at me. My heart bangs, my stomach has started churning with the kind of adrenaline that happens when something—anything—unexpected happens, and my head just…aches.
“Oh, honey.” This is an elderly man. He carefully puts one knee on the ground and grips me by the elbow to help me stand. Look, I just don’t have very many elderly men in my life. Certainly not one who would get on the ground and help me stand up. And the whole situation just sort of shreds me. The high school kids have either grown consciences or they’ve realized the situation is not as funny as it first seemed, because here they come, grabbing my other arm.
“Is she okay?” someone asks from behind.
“Get her bag for her,” someone else calls.
All of New York has turned out to see my embarrassing trip and fall. Oh, joy.
“Thank you,” I’m saying to one person and the next. “Thank you. Thank you for your help.”
“I’m afraid we can’t save the tomatoes, honey,” the elderly man says, handing me the brown paper bag of tomatoes that I brought home from work. I was gonna make dinner with them tonight.
They’re dripping out of the bag, lopsided from being ground into the dirty street.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
I wave everyone away and gingerly pick my way through the entrance of our building. And then I stand at the bottom of all the stairs and just weep. There’s no other word for it.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say to myself, over and over, through tears, as I trek all the way up. “It’s not a big deal.”
I’m through the front door and dying to throw myself into Vin’s arms. God, wouldn’t it be so great to just walk straight into the safest place on earth and fall asleep?
But, of course, it’s still too early for him to be home. My apartment is still and quiet. And lonely.
I shower off, testing the bruises on my palms (no scrapes, thank goodness), and continue with my refrain. “It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal.”
I get straight into pajamas and when I’m just hanging up my towel, Vin finally comes through the door. I run into the main room, about to vomit my feelings all over and ask him to clean it up.
But then…his face. Lined and tired and…something else.
“What happened?” I ask, and I need the answer now. “Vin, what happened?”
“Nothing,” he says, toeing out of his boots. “Not a big deal.”
And that’s when the weeping starts up again. “Whatever. It. Was. It. Was. A. Big. Fucking. Deal.So tell me! Right now!”
I don’t mean to be shouting at him. Or even crying. And I certainly don’t mean to be swearing. But here we are. In the bright/hollow light of early dusk because neither of us has turned on the lights yet.
“Why are you yelling at me?” he says back in a low voice. This is the closest that Vin ever gets to yelling. And it rocks me a little.
“Why are you yelling atme?” I demand.
His hands go out to either side. “What the hell?”
“Vin, what happened. Just tell me what happened.”
He approaches me slowly. “It wasn’t a big deal, like I said. Everyone’s fine. I’m fine. But somebody rear-ended the work van today and—”
His voice suddenly fails and he rips his head to one side. Probably so I don’t see his face twist with severe emotion. But I see it. Ifeelit.
“Oh, Vin.” I close the distance between us and pause.
