It was now six-fifteen and the streets and sidewalks of Midtown were flush with cars and people going every which way they could and, more often, where they shouldn't. Horns blared as people crossed against the light, all in a hurry to be anywhere but where they were this moment. I dodged a quick-turning cab, passed another umbrella vendor without stopping, and headed uptown. Maddie lived just off the park in a brownstone on West 76th Street. She'd started with two roommates, whittled it down to one a couple years ago, and, six months later, had the place to herself. Unless I was there, and I often was. Hers was a twobedroom main-floor apartment with a big bay window and flower boxes and the sweet smell of a woman's touch, a noticeably sharp contrast to my East Side studio. She'd often asked me to move closer, but I'd stood firm. I liked my place, and I liked my rent, too. So we ended up spending a lot of time at Maddie's. I had my own keys.
I began to feel droplets of rain, big wet ones that spotted my suit jacket, and I was still fifteen blocks from Maddie's. I searched out a cab, but all the available ones dried up at the slightest hint of rain, suddenly off duty and racing homeward. What possessed me to walk these twenty-five blocks, I didn't knowânot exactly what I should be doing, healthwise. The walk had utterly worn me out. Luck, though, played on my side, as the M10 bus came up beside the curb. I hopped on with a few others, sliding my MetroCard in the slot. Traffic was nasty, and in fifteen minutes, we finally hit 76th Street.
A minute later, I had crossed the street, gone halfway down the block, and climbed the stoop. I unlocked the outside door, and then Maddie's front door, letting myself inside.
The first sound I heard was, in fact, no sound. Then I detected noises from somewhere within the apartment, and I almost called out Maddie's name. But she couldn't be home, not yet, and for a moment I wondered if it was her cleaning person. Or maybe the sound was deceptive, drifting downward from the upstairs neighbor.
I'd barely moved into the living room when the muffled sound came again, and I realized, no, it was not the neighbor. Concentrating on the noise, I almost tripped over a suitcase that had been placed in the middle of the floor. Whoever was here, I could have spooked them but good. But then again, my stealthy behavior here was going to spook someone eventually; maybe it was better to announce my presence. I continued down the hall, despite an inner voice telling me to do the complete opposite.
Maybe she got home early; maybe she was on the phone. Maybe I should turn around and leave.
The sound of voices intensified as I approached the end of the hall. My stomach was tight with tension and threatened an angry growl.
Please,
I began telling myself,
let Maddie have given her place to a friend for these few days. Please.
The door was half open. My palms had gone dry, as had my mouth. Finally my eyes caught the first glimpse of human activity. There was no doubt that the woman lying on the bed was one Madison Laurette Chasen, the woman I loved. I knew her sound, recognized her rhythm. I even recognized the man she was with, and although I'd never seen him in such a state of, well, undress, there was little question whom she was, uh, merging with. Justin Warfield. The boss. Or was that The Boss? Though it appeared their professional relationship had taken a decidedly more personal tone. They were clearly enjoying themselves, their slick, sweat-coated bodies indicating that they had really gotten down to business. And in all their excitement, they failed to notice me watching their every moveâand what moves they were. Justin's eager thrusting, Maddie's willing squirms. Her pale skin in stark contrast to his olive tone. His mouth suckled her generous breasts; her fingers hungrily grasped the hair on his back.
Beauty and the Beast
without the music.
I'd seen more than I wanted, more than I needed, but I couldn't get my feet to move. I was frozen in place. Let's just say that if I'd been a judge and they'd been an Olympic event, they'd have earned high marks. But did I wait for the conclusion of their program? Was it the short program or the long? And what then? Act shocked, upset, surprised, disappointed, pissed off? Did I applaud? I was fresh out of gold medals.
As I stupidly stood there, what bothered me most, I think, was the familiarity they seemed to have with each other's bodies, the sense that they knew where to touch and when to touch in exchange for mutual pleasure. A thrilled cry escaped from Maddie's lips, and suddenly I found that my feet would move again, so I made a silent escape from the bedroom. They'd never even noticed me.
I stopped in the kitchen to throw water on my flushed face. For some reason, I opened the refrigerator, saw a bottle of champagne on the top shelf and nothing much else. Maddie wasn't a shopper, a stupid detail to recall. I considered taking the bottle, depriving them of their celebratory bubbly, and then feared they might realize someone had stopped by for an unannounced visit. Did I really want to risk discovery? Their passionate exchange shook the apartment, and I found myself grabbing the neck of the bottle and making a mad dash for the front door. Not only had I seen enough, now I'd heard enough.
Outside the droplets were gone, replaced by a steady sheet of rain. And of course, no cabs, and no umbrella man eitherâand no buses in sight. They all seemed to be washed down the gutter along with the best relationship of my life.
I opened Maddie's trash bin and threw in the chilled bottle of champagne. It cracked against some other glass, and the crystal liquid spilled all over the inside of the can.
Nicesmelling garbage,
I thought, not without some irony.
By the time I got home, I was soaking wet and numb. There was one message on my machine. Surpriseâit was from Maddie.
“Hi, Brian. Our afternoon flight was canceled because of the weather. I'm hoping to get a later flight, but who knows? I'll call you tomorrow. Sorry about this morning; I wasn't very awake. Hope you're feeling better.”
I nearly laughed. Of all the days to get out of bed.
Just this morning I'd been so hopeful about reclaiming my life. Now, I was left with altogether another option: Could I restart my life? And if so, how? And with whom?
As I deleted her message, an idea began to form, and for a brief second I found myself trying to smile. I failed.