“Right,” Ari says. “You’re a hundred percent certain she’s standing a thousand miles away.”
“Two thousand four hundred, actually,” he replies.
“What about your arm falling asleep?”
“She’s always been a very light sleeper.”
“The chicken noodle soup?”
“Sophie never gets sick.” It’s true. Josh has never seen her in anything less than peak physical condition. “And it’s matzo ball. Chicken noodle is bullshit.”
“I’ll give you this: Sophie is a very moanable name,” she continues. “Sohhh-feee.” She draws out the two-vowel sounds into at least four. “If you want to work that into your next phone call. ‘Cass’？ Not a name you can moan. It’s the short ‘A’ sound. Very nasal.” Ari looks up at the hazy, dark sky and smiles a little bit, like she’s recalling a private memory. “I guess the word ‘ass’ is in there, though.”
“How did you meet?” he asks, surprised by his own curiosity.
“I was delivering her weed. I thought it was a rebound hookup for her,” she says, “because she was going through this insane nightmare divorce.” Ari runs her index finger around the mouth of the empty wine bottle. “It became this really great fling that I knew would peter out at some point. But one night, I was trying to work up the energy to get up and put my jeans back on and go back to Brooklyn. And she kinda rolled onto her side and faced me and said, ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ And I realized…I didn’t want to, either.”
“The person who recoiled in horror at the thought of spending the night in another person’s bed?”
Ari snorts—a cute snort. “I did have to smoke most of a bowl the first time I slept over.” She presses her lips together like she can’t summon the right words. “I dunno. It’s good. She really wants me. Like, all the time.”
“You”—he tilts his head, considering how to phrase it—“you’ve definitely evolved.”
“Don’t humans become a different version of themselves every four years? Like a total refresh with brand-new cells?”
“Seven years,” he says. “But that’s a myth. It’s not even a rough average of every cell’s life span.”
“Right.” She attempts to take another sip from the empty bottle.
From behind them, through the thin walls, the partygoers start chanting the countdown.
Ten…nine…eight…
“Aren’t you going to call your girlfriend again?” Ari asks. “Wish her happy New Year?”
“She’s three hours behind with the time difference.” He glances over his shoulder. “Don’t you want to ring in the new year with your wife?”
Five…four…
“We have our whole lives to ring in New Year’s together.” She stares into space, seemingly distracted, even disturbed, by the idea. “Like, sixty more New Year’s Eves,” she mumbles. “Shit, that’s a long time. And I don’t think I can get up right now.”
Ari and Josh watch the celebration at the roof party a few buildings over: the jubilant hugs and a few kisses shared between partners.
They turn to look at each other and the timing is both perfect and awkward. Should we? Just a peck on the cheek. A friendly thing. Not that they’re even friends.
But maybe…
Josh’s phone nearly buzzes out of his hand and through the fire escape grate. “My car’s here.”
Ari nods. “Right.”
Josh ducks his head through the window and back into the bedroom, fishing his coat out of the gigantic pile on the bed, praying that a dozen tiny bed bugs haven’t crawled into the seams.
“Well, happy New Year.” He adds, “See you,” even though he can’t imagine another circumstance under which they’d see each other again.
“Right!” Ari calls out. “Maybe next time, we can share that bottle of white zinfandel.”
Josh shoves his arms into the sleeves. “No, thank you.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Okay, then we’ll just share your girlfriend!”
Every muscle in his body contracts. “What?”
“Kidding,” she shouts. Then, faintly, almost out of earshot, “Unless…”
4
WHEN JOSH INITIALLY TOOK SOPHIE to see the loft, she’d been thrilled to find that it was just one building over from The Smile. The proximity to one of her favorite brunch places loomed large over the rest of the tour, casting some of the more questionable elements—the long and narrow footprint, the grubbiness of the building’s stairwells and elevator, the gut renovation that would be required—in a more positive light.