Published Work | On a Night Like This

On a Night Like This

Excerpt from Chapter 1

Blair lifted the man's arm and slid out from under him. She tucked a pillow back in her place, and he embraced it, easily. She smiled at that. Men. She gathered her clothes from the floor and tucked them under her arm, picked up her shoes, stopped in the doorway. She looked back at the man, his long, lean body curled away from her, his hair a tousled mess, his face half-buried in the pillow. I could climb back into bed and stay there awhile, she thought. She closed the door quietly behind her.

The hallway of his apartment was dark and she slid her hand along the wall until she found a light switch, flicked it on, squinted in the sudden brightness. She hadn't looked at the clock. Had she slept all night or only an hour or two?

She headed down the hall, drowsily dropped a shoe which thudded on the hardwood floor. Suddenly another door opened and a woman appeared, pajamaed and sleep-rumpled. Blair recovered her shoe, stood and shrugged, naked, too slow to cover herself up.

"Are you a roommate or a wife?" Blair asked.

The woman peered at Blair. Someone without her glasses.

"Roommate," she mumbled.

"Good," Blair said. "Go back to sleep. I'm leaving."

"Where's Perry?"

Perry. That was his name.

"Sleeping. Sorry I woke you."

The woman plunged back into the darkness of her room. Blair continued on down the hall.

She found the kitchen, dropped her clothes and shoes on the old pine table, found a glass and poured herself water from the tap. She drank, then opened the fridge. Filled the glass with white wine, sipped at it, took it with her back to the table. Microwave clock read 11:45. She had barely slept. Amanda would still be awake, maybe waiting for her. She found a phone, curled into a chair at the table, dialed and drank.

"Hey," Amanda said into the phone.

"I'm sorry," Blair told her. "I'm late."

"Or early," Amanda told her. "I thought maybe you'd crawl in sometime tomorrow."

"I don't crawl, Amanda."

"Then you'd tango home. Who's the guy?"

"Maybe I'm at the library. Studying for a master's degree in quantum mechanics."

"You coming home?"

"Did you get worried? Damn, I should have called."

"I didn't get worried. I'm not a baby."

"What did you eat for dinner?"

"I finished the lasagna."

"Damn you. I've been dreaming about that lasagna."

"I'll make you some eggs."

"You go to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

Blair smiled. "O.K., then I'd love a mushroom omelet. With cheese. Tons of cheese."

She hung up the phone, took one last swig of wine, pulled herself up and out of the chair. When she half-turned, reaching her sweater over her head, she saw someone standing in the doorway and gasped.

"You scared me," she said. Perry. Naked and watching her. She reached for her jeans, pulled them on. Stuffed her bra and underpants into her backpack.

"Who was that? Your boyfriend?"

Blair smiled, shook her head. "My daughter," she said. "Sixteen years old. Waiting for her mom to come home and tuck her in."

"You're some teenager's mom?"

"That I am." She slipped her feet into her shoes and turned toward him.

"You can't stay?" he asked.

"I don't stay," she said. "Something you should know about me." Blair put her hand on his chest, pressed her palm into him. "But I had fun."

"Too bad," he said, covering her hand with his own.

"Tell me where we are. How I get home. That sort of thing."

They had met at a bar. He had driven them back to his place. She hadn't paid attention to anything except his slow voice, his hand on her thigh, the soft blur of streetlights from her tequila high.

"I'll drive you," he said.

"No," she told him. "I'll find a cab. Go on back to sleep."

"That's it?" he asked.

"You mean are we now formally engaged? I don't think so."

He smiled. "I mean, can we try this one more time."

"Maybe. Give me your phone number."

"You don't give out yours."

"Smart man."

He walked to the kitchen counter, pulled out a drawer, rifled through, found a business card which he passed to her. He was comfortable being naked - she liked watching him.

"I'll call you," she said.

"Maybe," he told her, smiling.

She pulled her backpack onto her back, headed toward the door. She looked back at him, blew him a kiss. He was watching her.

"Do you always do this?" he asked.

She stopped, leaned back against the door, suddenly tired. She waited.

"Is this what men do? And you do it better?"

"No," she said.

"Been burned too many times?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"I give up."

"I'm dying," she told him. "It's easier this way."

Neither spoke for a moment. It was the first time she said it. Something in her chest tightened. Blair leaned over, placed his business card on the side table by the front door.

"AIDS?" he asked, and she could imagine his mind flashing: condom, we used a condom, hallelujah for condoms.

She shook her head. "I wouldn't do that to you," she said. "Just cancer. Nothing to be scared of."

"Except relationships," he told her.

"Right," she said. "Everyone's a therapist these days. Gotta run. It's been grand."

She opened the door, walked out, pulled it closed behind her.