rummage around in my messenger bag for my key.
Smoke was pouring out from the bottom of my door.
I found my key finally and jammed it in, but I couldn’t get the door to open. In a panic of fear and frustration, I banged my head against the door.
It was a reflexive gesture. I wasn’t expecting it to open.
But it did, and there stood Brian, wearing an apron. My apron. He sang, “Hi, honey, welcome home.”
I had a moment of utter, speechless shock.
“Would you like a drink, Tessa?” he asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”
I recovered myself enough to manage a few words. “What, what are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
“The door was unlocked,” Brian said.
“No, it wasn’t.” I tried to push through him to see what was on fire in my home. My brain had short-circuited, but I figured I could put out the fire and then deal with the fact that a crazy homeless man had broken into my apartment.
Brian threw an arm around my waist and halted me. He gestured with his chin at the door on which hung a sign that said NOTICE OF HOUSING COURT.
A luminous landscape was painted over it, but the letters still showed through. “Great painting,” Brian said. “Almost as good as your figure drawings.”
“You broke into my apartment, and you’re talking about my paintings?” I asked incredulously.
“You, a total stranger?”
“We’re not strangers anymore, you met me today,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Did you do that recently? Is that why you said you were painting again? It’s really beautiful. Exquisite.”
I softened because I couldn’t help it. My art was the way into my heart. “Thank you. I was rather pleased with my use of color and the composition of trees framing the stone wall.” I stole a look at Brian; I really didn’t think he was an axe murderer. Would an axe murderer be able to appreciate my painting?
No, axe murderers would like the ugly crap sold by Frances Gates.
Brian held aloft that professorial index finger.
“Notice that this isn’t a canvas. It’s an eviction notice.”
He had no right to be standing in my kitchen. I tore myself out of his grasp. “What’s all the smoke?”
“Lamb chops caught on fire. Greasy suckers.”
I ran to the oven and threw open the oven door.
Inside, smoldering on my cast iron skillet, were blackened, coal-like lumps of meat.
“I can scrape off the charred part,” Brian said.
Those were my last frozen chops, and I was saving them for when I was really, really hungry and couldn’t stand another bite of free bagels and cream cheese. “No! Get out of my apartment right now. You have no right to be here!” I was yelling and stabbing the air with my finger. A tiny, querulous voice in the back of my being wondered, had I somehow encouraged him today by not being forceful enough with him? Had I been bizarrely tolerant, so that he thought I was inviting him in? “Brian, I mean it. Get out, and don’t bother me any more!”
“But I came all the way from a parallel world to see you, and I only had five days, four hours, twenty two minutes, not a second more, and the clock is counting down.” He made a placating gesture with his hands, palms facing me, trying to appease me.
“I don’t care what crazy farm you escaped from. I don’t know you. I don’t want you in my home. Now.
Get out!”
“I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I’m calling the police,” I decided. I grabbed the phone and punched in 9-1-1.
“If you call them, I’ll tell them you stole a Cliff Bucknell from the Frances Gates gallery.”
I hung up the phone. I squared off to Brian. Both of us were determined. I could feel the tension like a block of marble between us. “You really think I’m going to let you stay here? A criminally insane derelict? I should whack you in the head with that cast iron skillet and drag you outside to the park where you belong.”
“You’d never do something like that.” He grinned and shook his head. His
Smoke was pouring out from the bottom of my door.
I found my key finally and jammed it in, but I couldn’t get the door to open. In a panic of fear and frustration, I banged my head against the door.
It was a reflexive gesture. I wasn’t expecting it to open.
But it did, and there stood Brian, wearing an apron. My apron. He sang, “Hi, honey, welcome home.”
I had a moment of utter, speechless shock.
“Would you like a drink, Tessa?” he asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”
I recovered myself enough to manage a few words. “What, what are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
“The door was unlocked,” Brian said.
“No, it wasn’t.” I tried to push through him to see what was on fire in my home. My brain had short-circuited, but I figured I could put out the fire and then deal with the fact that a crazy homeless man had broken into my apartment.
Brian threw an arm around my waist and halted me. He gestured with his chin at the door on which hung a sign that said NOTICE OF HOUSING COURT.
A luminous landscape was painted over it, but the letters still showed through. “Great painting,” Brian said. “Almost as good as your figure drawings.”
“You broke into my apartment, and you’re talking about my paintings?” I asked incredulously.
“You, a total stranger?”
“We’re not strangers anymore, you met me today,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Did you do that recently? Is that why you said you were painting again? It’s really beautiful. Exquisite.”
I softened because I couldn’t help it. My art was the way into my heart. “Thank you. I was rather pleased with my use of color and the composition of trees framing the stone wall.” I stole a look at Brian; I really didn’t think he was an axe murderer. Would an axe murderer be able to appreciate my painting?
No, axe murderers would like the ugly crap sold by Frances Gates.
Brian held aloft that professorial index finger.
“Notice that this isn’t a canvas. It’s an eviction notice.”
He had no right to be standing in my kitchen. I tore myself out of his grasp. “What’s all the smoke?”
“Lamb chops caught on fire. Greasy suckers.”
I ran to the oven and threw open the oven door.
Inside, smoldering on my cast iron skillet, were blackened, coal-like lumps of meat.
“I can scrape off the charred part,” Brian said.
Those were my last frozen chops, and I was saving them for when I was really, really hungry and couldn’t stand another bite of free bagels and cream cheese. “No! Get out of my apartment right now. You have no right to be here!” I was yelling and stabbing the air with my finger. A tiny, querulous voice in the back of my being wondered, had I somehow encouraged him today by not being forceful enough with him? Had I been bizarrely tolerant, so that he thought I was inviting him in? “Brian, I mean it. Get out, and don’t bother me any more!”
“But I came all the way from a parallel world to see you, and I only had five days, four hours, twenty two minutes, not a second more, and the clock is counting down.” He made a placating gesture with his hands, palms facing me, trying to appease me.
“I don’t care what crazy farm you escaped from. I don’t know you. I don’t want you in my home. Now.
Get out!”
“I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I’m calling the police,” I decided. I grabbed the phone and punched in 9-1-1.
“If you call them, I’ll tell them you stole a Cliff Bucknell from the Frances Gates gallery.”
I hung up the phone. I squared off to Brian. Both of us were determined. I could feel the tension like a block of marble between us. “You really think I’m going to let you stay here? A criminally insane derelict? I should whack you in the head with that cast iron skillet and drag you outside to the park where you belong.”
“You’d never do something like that.” He grinned and shook his head. His
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