Chapter 91

            On a particularly hot and sticky night in early July, Romy and Alex met up and sat next to the biggest window in Romy’s apartment.  She was covered in a thin layer of salt from having sweated her ass off packing all day.  She was pretty much done, having only to sweep up and take some stuff to be donated.  She was surprised at how much stuff she’d ended up throwing away.  Maybe she was just getting older, but she was starting to loathe clutter and unnecessary objects.  She now could say with complete confidence that she felt better discarding belongings than accumulating them.  Not so when she was a child, oh Lordy no.  She had been an especially spoiled youngster, in fact, and had at one point ruled over a virtual Noah’s Ark of stuffed animals. 

            They were drinking daiquiris, made by Romy, who’d been on a frozen drink kick ever since she’d bought a blender.  She held the cold glass up to her chest, cooling her cleavage, which could get surprisingly overheated. 

            “Where did I put my sunglasses?” she asked herself out loud, shielding her eyes.  She walked around until she found them, resting on a dangerously tall pile of newspapers, and put them on.  She grabbed a silk scarf from her open underwear box (one of those boxes you couldn’t seal up until the absolute last second) and wrapped it around her head like Audrey Hepburn or some other fallen icon.  To complete the look she lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke mysteriously.  Alex applauded.

            “Thank you, dahlink,” she murmured in a mediocre Russian accent before reclaiming her seat on the sill. 

            “What are you doing tonight?” Alex asked lazily. 

            “Nothing, I told you, I’m flat broke.  I can’t do jack shit until I get a job.”

            “Have you gotten any callbacks?”

            “Not yet, but I’m not worried.”  She didn’t know how much she believed that, but she went with it anyway.  She found not having a job to be quite peaceful, and in fact, when she thought about it, some of the happiest and most carefree times of her life had taken place during periods of unemployment.  Granted, it ended up causing depression and weight gain, not to mention anti-social tendencies, but goddamn it, it was the only time a lady could stop and think these days, with the system the way it was set up.  She longed to live somewhere like France, with its vacances and its 32-hour workweek.  Blast them and their wisdom. 

            “Well, I have some money.  We can just get a bottle of something and chill here.”

            “Fabulous!”  Romy high-fived Alex.  He went to go get the liquor, and she stayed so she could keep cleaning.  As she swept unspeakable quantities of dust into ragged piles, she felt very grateful to live in the city she did.  She was really going to miss this old place, the apartment, that is, but she’d miss Manhattan more.  Even now, when she didn’t have a job and was stressfully out of money and it was hard to enjoy herself because everything, it turns out, involves spending money in Manhattan, she still fell in love every time she stepped outside.  She’d been going on lots of walks as a consequence of her poverty (it was one of the few free pastimes left in the city), and the more of the island she saw, the more she appreciated living there.  She had to admit, though, that Brooklyn was going to be a nice change.  She’d be less in the middle of things, but she’d have more space, and it would be more reminiscent of where she grew up.  It would be homier, and with Andrew around, things could get downright domestic if she wasn’t careful. 

            Alex came back with the liquor and a couple of 2-liters of Coke, and the drinking began.  It built to a crescendo of drunken tomfoolery before dying down in a wave of tiredness and, ultimately, vomit. 

            They slept on Romy’s bare mattress, which lay naked on the mothball-ridden floor, its Ikea frame long since folded up.  They woke up in the full glare of the sun through the curtainless window, and Romy desperately sought water, blinking with discomfort only to realize that she’d left her contacts in again.  She chucked them into the trash; she’d already worn them three weeks longer than you’re supposed to anyway.  She filled up one of Djamila’s big plastic tumblers from the water pitcher in the fridge, and stumbled back into her room, where Alex was just beginning to roll around and groan dramatically. 

            “What did we do last night?”

            “Don’t worry, I didn’t date rape you.”

            “Romy, date rape is no laughing matter.”

            “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

            “Just kidding.  It is!”

            Romy handed Alex the water.  “You don’t amuse me.”

            Alex considered himself a U-Haul expert after his recent move, and Romy gladly let him take control of the whole truck rental business.  It was a pain in the ass and cost a hell of a lot of money, and only reaffirmed Romy’s seething hatred of driving in general.  A whole lot of scratches, bruises, and strenuous lifting later, Romy was officially a Brooklynite.  She and Andrew went out to celebrate by consuming barbeque and red wine.  It was an awesome day.