You've Been Warned

I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.

Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.

“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.

Click.

I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.

What’s come over you, Kristin?

This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.

It’s scary.

And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.

With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse—thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”

It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Where am I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine... and I’d feel so much better.

Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash...

Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.

Something a little, well, crazy.

Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.

“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”

I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.

“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”

Before I know it, I’m right in his face too. “Listen, you sorry-assed Kurt Cobain wannabe, did you ever think that maybe it’s your playing that’s hurting business and not me?”

He’s speechless, songless too, and I’m already halfway down the block.

I’ve got somewhere to go after all.

Chapter 37

WHEN I LEFT BOSTON and traded the Red Sox for the Yankees, I brought three things with me to Manhattan. A suitcase. A boyfriend.

And Bob.

There are undoubtedly far more inspired nicknames for a pickup truck than Bob, but I’ve always liked the simplicity of it. Besides, we’re talking about a 1980 Ford F-100 with more than 180,000 miles on it. Even the rust has rust. A fancy name just wouldn’t feel right.

I hurry over to First Avenue, where I park Bob at an outdoor lot. The indoor garages can cost more than some apartments here—like mine, for instance. Still, I don’t get off cheap. Three hundred and fifty bucks a month, to be exact. That makes broken-down Bob, with his missing hubcaps and leaky engine, my greatest luxury in this city. Crazy, huh?

But today he’s worth every single penny. Today Bob screams freedom, maybe even salvation.

The crosstown traffic is its usual bear, and I’m worrying that I might be late. When a Macy’s delivery truck ahead of me doesn’t move the nanosecond a light turns green, I obnoxiously bang on my horn. It doesn’t take much to bring out my inner cabdriver.

Approaching the building, I know I can’t park too close. Bob doesn’t exactly blend in.

After circling the block a couple of times, I luck out with a spot that’s a safe distance from the entrance. I reach for my cell and dial the apartment, hitting *67 first to block the caller ID.

Michael answers.

Good, they haven’t left yet.

For the second time this morning, I hang up on him. Then I adjust my sunglasses, sink down in Bob’s front seat, and get busy.

Waiting.

Soon I see Michael emerge from the building. I immediately want to rush out and go to him, kick his shins, and call him a nasty name. Then I’ll kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. We’ll escape to the nearest alley and have amazing, passionate makeup sex—no, wait, better yet, we’ll fuck, like rabbits, like minks, or like whatever other furry creatures top the most-horny list.

“Have a nice day with your in-laws!” I’ll say when we’re done.

Instead, I stay right here with Bob, watching.

Michael disappears around the corner. A few minutes later, he returns with the “family car,” a shiny black Mercedes, the G-class.

Almost on cue, Penley, Dakota, and Sean come bounding out to the sidewalk while Louis, sweating in his doorman uniform, brings up the rear with the kids’ knapsacks and an overstuffed beach bag.