To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,17
so late,” I say quietly, my righteous fury all burned out, replaced by heartbroken weariness. “Have a nice evening.”
“Ms. Cooper—”
If I hear a tinge of remorse in his voice, I ignore it and hang up.
To Sir, with bruised feelings,
Do you ever let a comment slip under your skin that shouldn’t? The sort of jab from someone you don’t even like that you should really brush off, but instead it keeps you up at night because it… hurts?
Lady
* * *
My dear lady,
Given the hard-to-define nature of our correspondence, this is perhaps overstepping, but I confess my knee-jerk reaction to your note was to ask for a name and address of the offender. Duels are still a thing, right?
But alas, that would be a bit hypocritical of me. I too have been up at night, though not for something I heard but for something I said. A rash, spontaneous comment I wish I could take back.
Perhaps whomever hurt you feels the same regret? And if not, let me know about that duel…
Yours at dawn,
Sir
Six
I’ve moved apartments a few times in the past eleven years, but I’ve never switched neighborhoods. The city sometimes likes to pitch this neighborhood as Midtown West or Clinton, but make no mistake: we locals call it by its proper name, Hell’s Kitchen.
It sounds gritty as hell (pun intended), and while it has its moments, for sure, the neighborhood’s not nearly as rough as it used to be. Not to say it’s glamorous—I can’t afford glamorous, but neither do I particularly want it.
I currently live in a walk-up on Fifty-Fourth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, in a cute little one-bedroom apartment. Does it have sleek granite countertops, central air, and a glass shower? Certainly not. Does it have brick walls, a window AC unit that does the trick, and a whole lot of character? Yes. Yes, it does.
If I could change one thing, I, like most New Yorkers, wouldn’t say no to more space. My living room doubles as my art studio, which means I can’t watch TV without first moving my easel, nor can I sit on the couch without first removing the plastic sheeting that protects the faux leather from flecks of paint.
It’s become my normal though, so I don’t really notice so much anymore. Whenever I start to feel a little crammed, I remind myself that I’m an artist in the city, and then I feel pretty darn lucky. Well, not a working artist—that generally implies I’d be able to live off my art, which I can’t.
But knowing people buy things I create? There’s really no high like it, and it makes up for the inconvenience of having to turn sideways and slink against the wall to scoot around the easel to open the window—something I do the second I get home on a sunny afternoon, because the apartment has the distinct whiff of cat.
“Cannoli, darling, what in the world did you do to your litter box?”
The black-and-white cat jumps onto the back of the sofa and stares me down. I did a thing. Clean it.
“For being the runt of the litter, you produce a lot of output,” I mutter, scratching him behind the ears as I scoot around my work in progress to deal with the joys of being the owner of an indoor cat.
I pause and study the watercolor on my easel. It’s girly to the extreme. A pink cocktail in a traditional martini glass, with a whimsical New York City skyline in the background. It’s got distinct Sex and the City vibes, but the watercolor and not-quite-to-scale skyline make it feel softer, the type of scene where you wouldn’t be all that surprised to see a fairy with turquoise wings sitting atop the Empire State Building. Actually—I like that idea. I might add exactly that.
Cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.
“Little does Sebastian Andrews know I take that as a compliment,” I say, glancing at Cannoli.
The cat pauses in cleaning his paw. He didn’t mean it as one.
“I know, I know,” I grumble.
I take care of my litter box duties and change out of my work clothes—a sunny yellow dress and clunky-heeled sandals—into gray joggers and a plain white T-shirt. I dated a sweet coder in college for about a year, and by far the best thing to come out of that relationship was discovering the joys of men’s undershirts. Since I no longer have a guy in my life to swipe them from, I buy the soft and surprisingly affordable tees for myself.
It’s too