—Crow’s Caw
“Wow,they aren’t even hiding their misogyny, are they?”
Paloma lifted her eyes from her laptop and watched as her ex-wife tore the newspaper to shreds, scattering it around the floor. The mess grated at her like nails over a blackboard.
“Such theatrics, Roxanne.” Changing the subject wouldn’t help, nor would a raised eyebrow. Roxanne was mad, and in these instances, it was a one-woman show. Paloma silently gave thanks to her tired and heartbroken self of three years ago, who had finally had enough and contacted a divorce lawyer. Surprisingly, it had been a smoother process than she had thought it would be. Smooth, but not painless.
She also sent a silent curse to her infatuated and blinded-by-love-and-lust self from five years ago, who proposed to Roxanne in the middle of an exclusive luxury club in Aspen. What had she been thinking, marrying a party girl? A woman who lived to dance and fuck around?
All she could remember now were the days filled with abject loneliness after Kristina had died. Years and years of being alone. Of that loss strangling her, robbing her of oxygen, of life itself. And so she had done the stupidest thing in the book. She went from love, to grief, to lust, to love, and then to loss. A different loss, one perhaps less acute in its ruination but more painful in its betrayal. Kristina died, taking love and light away. Roxanne removed what was left, and that was trust and pride.
Bygones.
There was nothing to be done now. Five years ago, she had been forty and thinking life was running away from her. Bleeding out of her veins and onto the polished parquet floors of her Manhattan home.
Paloma Lucia Allende Moreno was an off-the-charts successful businesswoman. A graduate of Yale and Harvard. First in her class. A self-made millionaire before she reached thirty. Or as self-made as one could be with well-connected parents in the wealthiest city on earth. Still, she hadn’t touchedher inheritance. Not for the purpose of enriching herself. Paloma either gave most of it away or opened foundations to make more money for various charities in the future.
Then she blinked, and time had passed. One marriage, one funeral, and she was forty years old with nothing to come home to. When she hung up the mantle of Ms. Allende Moreno, Paloma Lucia was left with an empty townhouse on the Upper East Side, and there, in the space of four floors, a Jacuzzi, and an indoor pool, her achievements meant nothing. She traveled so much that she couldn’t even get a cat.
She didn’t want a cat. Cats lived such short lives, and she could not stand the thought of losing a pet that would inevitably become vital to her heart. No, Paloma didn’t want a cat. Paloma, lying awake at night listening to the cars drive by her ginormous place on 72nd Street, wanted a wife. Preferably,herwife back. But that was not happening, no matter how much money she made or success she achieved. Deals…were only deals. She no longer even stayed for the celebratory champagne.
Lonely. It was just loneliness…
It was indeed loneliness. The most dangerous of predators. And one that certainly had Paloma in its claws. So when Roxanne pursued her avidly, relentlessly, greedily—when they burned the sheets of every hotel room bed and every bathroom in every club—Paloma made herself believe that this was it. Her lonely nights were over once again. And if it didn’t work out, at least she had her pride, her business, and her self-esteem.
It didn’t matter to her that Roxanne was a player. Had always been a player. One with itchy feet and thousands of enterprises to keep her away from 72nd Street. Nothing mattered. Paloma was determined to change her.
Two years passed. Roxanne was Roxanne, and Paloma was done. Except she had no pride left. And no self-esteem. Roxanne took all of that, along with her trust. In a torrent of tears andpain, broken promises and torn marriage certificates, shouting matches and silences that stretched for what seemed like lifetimes, it was over.
Paloma remembered her therapist saying at the time that she had dodged a bullet. She replied that she hadn’t; she had stood upright and allowed it to tear right through her. The therapist asked if she wanted to up the frequency of their sessions. Paloma had just nodded.
As for Roxanne, they defied true lesbian fashion and managed not to stay friends. As if reading her mind, Roxanne plopped herself on the antique desk, crossing her legs. What was one more little disrespect in a long history of big ones?
Paloma, however, had learned her lesson where trust was concerned. And that lesson rang true every time. Trust no one. Not even oneself. And certainly not pretty redheads with seductive smirks and swaggering strides.
But Roxanne still popped in and out of her life. They shared some business interests here and there—mostly West Coast real estate, where Paloma was just beginning to gain toeholds. Roxanne was sometimes helpful as an established developer, and so occasionally they had to share physical space as well.
“You kept me around for the antics. And my charming personality,” Roxanne said and displayed the aforementioned smirk. Today, Paloma found it especially lacking. After seeing one also containing kindness and joy on top of self-confidence…
“I really didn’t. Forget the antics, you know my business well enough to be useful.” Paloma’s answer was brisk, even to her own ears. She didn’t care.
“And I know you. Election notwithstanding, something else has been on that mind of yours.” Roxanne took a gulp from Paloma’s cool coffee mug and made a face, then took another anyway.
“There are many things on my mind. It’s called multitasking.”
Roxanne shrugged and kept glugging down cold coffee as she spoke.
“Sure. You are very good at it. And no, losing anything is simply not in your nature. As I said, I know you, and I don’t think you ever lost at hide-and-seek as a kiddo, not to mention anything you have been plotting for months.”
“I never played hide-and-seek. My parents were too busy for that. And I haven’t lost anything yet.”
Paloma gave in to her frustration and allowed herself to roll her eyes. Roxanne was not deterred.
“Moreover, you’re distracted. Your thoughts are somewhere else. I can’t reach you for hours on end, and not even the Viking boy you hired knows where to find you most of the time.”
Her shoulders tensed, but Paloma kept her voice down.
“Am I suddenly accountable to you or Mr. Vesely for my whereabouts?”
