postmodern-minimalist apartment. Jeff’s duvet was thin and dark gray; this one is fluffy and white. I sense light in the room, something Jeff could never tolerate in the morning. I am in Buenos Aires.
I shut my eyes tight and will myself back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. I only know there is no way in hell I am coming out from under this duvet. It’s kind of nice under here anyway. I kick my feet out. Pretty roomy, too. I could have my meals delivered, maybe ask Andrea to move a TV under here, and spend the next few months getting fat and watching all those crazy Latin American soap operas I’ve heard about. If I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll have to get off the bed, but I can take the duvet with me. Oh, God. Bathroom. I’m almost scared to think of what that looks like in this part of the world. Wasn’t there something about a string? Speaking of which, I really, really have to go. I let go of my duvet fantasy, hold my breath, close my eyes, and poke my head up into the room. I try to prepare myself by imagining the worst. With such a nice duvet, I’m not expecting total squalor, but the memory of the massive crumbling yellow wall and pack of wild canines doesn’t bode well. “Here goes nothing,” I whisper. I open my eyes—and drop my jaw.
The studio apartment is not just beautiful, it’s nicer than any place I’ve ever lived on my own. It’s only one room, but it’s huge, with enough space for a living area, dining area, small kitchenette, and this gigantic life raft of a bed I’ve grown so attached to. Room enough to hide away in for, say, six months. Every piece of furniture looks like something from
Antiques Roadshow.
But not in an old-fashioned way, maybe because the walls are a cheerful cherry red, or maybe because of the black-and-white macro photographs of exotic flowers that hang around the room. Screw the bed. I hop up and run from toile love seat to gleaming oak table to—I slide my hand over wall tiles till I find a light switch—white marble bathroom vanity! Everything is old in the most lovely way, as though this roomful of furniture has aged gracefully in this exact spot for decades waiting for me to arrive. And all of it bathed in morning light flooding in through sheers over wide French doors. I remember—garden view! I pull back the sheers to reveal a large courtyard carpeted in deep green grass and draped with thick, flowering vines. Stepping onto the small terrace, my arms spreading the doors as far as they will go, I inhale deeply from the sweet, fresh air. I feel like Juliet, minus Romeo, of course. But who needs Romeo when you’ve got a toile love seat and a garden view?
I do, that’s who. Even the image of the Eden before me can’t compete with that of Jeff and Lauren entwined. I shake my head hard, like a dog shaking off the rain, as if this will set them loose. My Jeff. Gorgeous, successful, great-on-paper, good-in-bed Jeff. Bed. Jeff and Lauren in bed, our bed. How is it possible that weeks later and thousands of miles away, the image of their writhing bodies has grown more vivid? And the sound. I swear I can still hear the knocking of the platform bed frame against the wall. It’s so real it seems to be coming from this apartment. Maybe I’ve finally cracked up. Okay, wait, that
is
someone knocking on my door. It must be Andrea coming to drag me down to breakfast at this ungodly hour of . . . I scan for a clock. Two-thirty. Sheesh. I haven’t slept till two-thirty since, well, never.
“Just a second,” I call out, looking around the room for my suitcases and wondering which one has my robe in it, until I realize I never undressed last night. I briefly consider whether this might be more embarrassing than greeting Andrea naked, and grudgingly make my way to the door. I attempt to smooth my sweater with one hand and my hair with the other. I’d be perfectly content to hide in this lovely room of hers for the next
I shut my eyes tight and will myself back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. I only know there is no way in hell I am coming out from under this duvet. It’s kind of nice under here anyway. I kick my feet out. Pretty roomy, too. I could have my meals delivered, maybe ask Andrea to move a TV under here, and spend the next few months getting fat and watching all those crazy Latin American soap operas I’ve heard about. If I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll have to get off the bed, but I can take the duvet with me. Oh, God. Bathroom. I’m almost scared to think of what that looks like in this part of the world. Wasn’t there something about a string? Speaking of which, I really, really have to go. I let go of my duvet fantasy, hold my breath, close my eyes, and poke my head up into the room. I try to prepare myself by imagining the worst. With such a nice duvet, I’m not expecting total squalor, but the memory of the massive crumbling yellow wall and pack of wild canines doesn’t bode well. “Here goes nothing,” I whisper. I open my eyes—and drop my jaw.
The studio apartment is not just beautiful, it’s nicer than any place I’ve ever lived on my own. It’s only one room, but it’s huge, with enough space for a living area, dining area, small kitchenette, and this gigantic life raft of a bed I’ve grown so attached to. Room enough to hide away in for, say, six months. Every piece of furniture looks like something from
Antiques Roadshow.
But not in an old-fashioned way, maybe because the walls are a cheerful cherry red, or maybe because of the black-and-white macro photographs of exotic flowers that hang around the room. Screw the bed. I hop up and run from toile love seat to gleaming oak table to—I slide my hand over wall tiles till I find a light switch—white marble bathroom vanity! Everything is old in the most lovely way, as though this roomful of furniture has aged gracefully in this exact spot for decades waiting for me to arrive. And all of it bathed in morning light flooding in through sheers over wide French doors. I remember—garden view! I pull back the sheers to reveal a large courtyard carpeted in deep green grass and draped with thick, flowering vines. Stepping onto the small terrace, my arms spreading the doors as far as they will go, I inhale deeply from the sweet, fresh air. I feel like Juliet, minus Romeo, of course. But who needs Romeo when you’ve got a toile love seat and a garden view?
I do, that’s who. Even the image of the Eden before me can’t compete with that of Jeff and Lauren entwined. I shake my head hard, like a dog shaking off the rain, as if this will set them loose. My Jeff. Gorgeous, successful, great-on-paper, good-in-bed Jeff. Bed. Jeff and Lauren in bed, our bed. How is it possible that weeks later and thousands of miles away, the image of their writhing bodies has grown more vivid? And the sound. I swear I can still hear the knocking of the platform bed frame against the wall. It’s so real it seems to be coming from this apartment. Maybe I’ve finally cracked up. Okay, wait, that
is
someone knocking on my door. It must be Andrea coming to drag me down to breakfast at this ungodly hour of . . . I scan for a clock. Two-thirty. Sheesh. I haven’t slept till two-thirty since, well, never.
“Just a second,” I call out, looking around the room for my suitcases and wondering which one has my robe in it, until I realize I never undressed last night. I briefly consider whether this might be more embarrassing than greeting Andrea naked, and grudgingly make my way to the door. I attempt to smooth my sweater with one hand and my hair with the other. I’d be perfectly content to hide in this lovely room of hers for the next
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