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and I rushed home. I hoped that we had similar enough schedules to
bump into each other again on the ride up. I waited in the lobby a moment,
crushing some candy and obnoxiously finishing up some Song Pop challenges sans
headphones. No Cash. I pushed the button to my floor and thought about him the
entire ride. I thought about what adventure we might have tomorrow morning.
Should I be this enamored? I’m over a month post horrible breakup. But aren’t I
the portrait of unattached and emotionally available? Regan has been on me to
meet someone since hour 17 post Hunter. “The best way
to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she would say, because she
is horribly unoriginal. I’m not really sure I need to get over him though. I
think I’ve been over him for a long time. I think I’m just ready to move on
with my life. My biological clock is ticking or some other cliché Regan
bullshit. I was so caught up in justifying my attraction to Cash I forgot to
even be afraid of plummeting to my death down a cold, four-story shaft in a
metal bread pan. I got this.
    I’m
going to ask him out. I’m going to see if he wants to get coffee, or pizza, or
whatever. I want to spend time with him. I want to get to know him. I want to
sit close enough to smell him and try to pinpoint what brand of ridiculously
overpriced cologne he wears. Should I wait for him to ask me out? Do I need to
sign up for Tinder and hope we both swipe whatever fucking direction we need to
swipe? I don’t know how dating works; I’ve been stuck with stripper fucker for
too long. I didn’t even date Hunter, the conqueror of pole dancers; a friend
hooked us up at a party. I have no idea how to date. My anxiety is spiraling
out of control and I decide I need to Occam’s razor this shit. I want to spend
time with him, so I’m going to ask him to spend time with me. Be upfront and
direct. Underutilized qualities. I plop in front of the TV and mindlessly tune
in to some cooking show. I drift off to sleep thinking of cranberry pecan
crusted pork chops.
    I
awake with a start. What time is it? What day is it? Is it Christmas? My
stomach yells at me. Did I forget to eat today? I bump and curse my way into
the kitchen and blink until the clock on the stove comes into focus. It’s only
eleven p.m. It is better than Christmas morning, because I have seven more
hours to sleep, and sleep is the greatest gift of all. I make a disappointing
sandwich and decide I need to stop falling asleep to Food Network and learn to
be happy with my turkey and Swiss on rye instead of dreaming of fancy shit I
can’t afford or pronounce. I have an unexpected second wind and decide I want
to set up my studio and drink chamomile tea while I gaze out my dream window.
I’ve lived here for two weeks and haven’t set foot into that room except to
store the grocery bags full of junk from Hunter’s.
    I
grab the bags from the craft store and set up my easel, line up my paints
neatly. I roll in the cheap computer chair, cursing at myself for not buying adequate
seating. I settle in, observing how the moon paints silver wisps in the small
ripples on the lake. A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, spreading its
veins across the inky blackness outside my window. I begin mixing silver and
blues.   I bring my brush to the
canvas. Then I hear the scream.

Chapter Four

 
    There is a woman screaming on the other
side of this wall. I drop my brush, spots of shimmery blue trailing behind it
as it rolls across the floor. I don’t even care about my security deposit.
There is a woman screaming in Cash’s apartment. I rush to the wall, pressing my
ear against it. The outer walls were brick, but the ones connecting our units
were drywall. As if this hadn’t always been an apartment building, and the
separations were made hastily with the cheapest materials available. Should I
call the police? Maybe it was the television. Maybe they were in an argument
and she screamed out of frustration.