if that’s what I wanted to do. And I do. I want them off my head.”
“Okay, I get that. But two other things. How you’re going to talk to your mom and—maybe most important of all—what you’re going to do for fun.”
“I can’t think about the fun.”
“Fine. I will.”
He swung into Philly Pride and the scent of grilled onions. She decided not to think at all while he picked up the food—and flirted harmlessly with Trace, the counter guy.
“Do you think I should ask him out?” Marco wondered when they walked outside again.
“Trace? No, he’s too young for you.”
“He’s our age!”
“Chronologically. He’d bore you inside a week because all he’d want to do other than sex is play video games. You’d say let’s check out this club, and he’d say maybe after I run up my score on Assassin’s Creed.”
“I hate you’re right, because he’s mmmm.”
“But the mmmm—and it’s there all right—wouldn’t last that week. And you’re bringing all this up to take my mind off things.”
“It worked.”
She started to tip her head toward his shoulder again, and caught a glimpse of the man—the silver hair, the tall, slender build in black—across the street.
“Do you see that man, Marco?” She grabbed his arm, then turned to point.
“What man?”
“I—He was just there. He must have turned that corner. He was on the bus today. He . . . I got a weird feeling.”
Since he knew her weird feelings often panned out, Marco gripped her hand, jogged to the corner, peered down the side street.
“Do you see him? What’s he look like?”
“No, he’s just gone. It’s nothing. I had that stupid headache, and that weird feeling. It just felt weird all over again seeing him so close to home. If I did,” she qualified. “I just caught a glimpse. Never mind.”
They walked the half block more to their apartment—a three-level walk-up. She loved the building, the old brick, the rainbow the owner had painted on the entrance doors, the music flowing out of the open windows on a happy spring night.
It made the climb to the third floor worth it.
The landlord kept the building, and the units, in good repair. The tenants kept it clean, and looked out for each other.
They walked up to the sounds of the Friday-night card game from 101, a fretful baby from 204, and soaring opera from 302.
Inside, Marco headed straight for their tiny galley kitchen.
“You go change out of those clothes—and I wouldn’t mind one bit if you listened to Sally and tossed them out the window.”
“There’s nothing wrong with these clothes.”
“The pants are baggy in the ass, the sweater’s beige and washes you out, and, girl, don’t get me started on those shoes.”
Sulking a little, she walked back to her room with its neatly made bed, its small but organized desk, and its single window that looked out on all the color of her part of the city.
She stepped out of her shoes, then put them away in her broomstick of a closet. She stripped off the sweater she now hated, but tossed it in the hamper rather than out the window. Then did the same with the pants.
Maybe they were baggy in the ass, but they didn’t draw any eyebrow wiggles from male students or staff the way Anna Mae’s—US and world history—body-conscious outfits did.
She put on cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. Took a look at her desk, where she should be sitting right now grading papers.
And walked back into the space that served as their living room, dining room, and her workout area.
It wasn’t much, but since she’d let Marco have his way there, it had style.
Together they’d painted the walls a warm, spicy color that made her think of crushed chili peppers, hung a shelf that held colored bottles of every size and shape. Art—framed posters—ran the theme of musicians. Springsteen, Prince, Jagger, Gaga, Joplin.
They’d covered the secondhand couch in dark green and a lot of wild pillows. Their dining room table consisted of a repurposed door—another thrift-store find—bolted to old iron legs.
An artist friend had painted an orange and emerald dragon, in flight, on top of the old door as a birthday gift for Breen.
Marco set plated food on the table, lit the candles in their iron stands.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Eat. No more wine until you get some food in you.”
“I shouldn’t have any more wine.”
“Well, you’re going to.”
He turned on their shared iPod, eased the volume down so music whispered out.
She sat, and though she didn’t have an appetite,