“No, but I’ll be able to find one for free at the end of the semester. NYU kids always put perfectly good stuff on the curb.”
“You can’t put your underwear in a piece of furniture that’s been on the street and then put it on your body. I’ll help you pick out a new dresser. We can go to CB2.”
“On whose budget?” she counters. She’d promised Radhya a trip to Ikea this month. “What do you want to watch?”
She hears the quiet bleeping sound effect of Josh scrolling through the interface on his TV.
“Tree of Life. Birdman. Blue Valentine. Requiem for a Dream—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there. I spent three years living with a Gen X film critic. Let’s watch something that won’t make me want to slit my wrists.”
It’s not that Cass would express her disapproval outright. It was the barely raised eyebrow working in concert with the rest of her face to create a slight suggestion of disappointment. The noncommittal hmmm sound followed by footsteps and the swift shutting of her office door.
Josh sighs. “Fine. The Princess Bride. A safe crowd-pleaser. A film everyone likes but is nobody’s favorite. The Foo Fighters of movies.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“How is that possible?” he exclaims, his voice distorting over the connection. “It’s basic cultural literacy.”
“I’m a youth,” she insists. “And I’m not in a state of mind where I can watch something with ‘bride’ in the title.”
“There’s enough self-awareness that it won’t bother you. And I overheard two college students at the gym misquoting it and referring to it as ‘that old movie’ and I’m still upset about it.”
“No,” she says firmly. “No love stories. I don’t care how ironically detached they are. I don’t want to feel anything.”
Ari looks up at the light fixture. It has a dark bronze finial that reminds her of a nipple. Or maybe she’s just missing Cass.
“But you’re okay with subjecting me to The Expendables?”
“If I watch it with someone else, it’s social. Otherwise, I’m just a sad, lonely person, waiting to get divorced, sitting on a hand-me-down air mattress, watching an ensemble action thriller by myself.”
“You’re right,” he says. “That’s definitely not what’s going on here.”
“Oh, and if I go quiet for a few minutes it’s because someone hired me to write a eulogy.”
7
Sat, Oct 22, 1:32 p.m.
Ari: i can’t find the mattresses Josh: Where are you?
Ari: I turned a corner at patio furniture and now i’m lost and also I want to buy this sofa table?
Josh: I’m waiting near the bed frames.
Ari: i’ve heard THAT before ok I’m in the middle of a sea of desks
Shout PENIS and I’ll follow your voice
“Everything in here is slightly sticky,” Josh says, shuddering.
“It’s either the soft serve or the meatball gravy.” Ari sits up from the showroom mattress she’s been lounging on. “If I don’t leave here with a box of unassembled particleboard, cartoon instructions, and a jar of lingonberry jam, we’ll have failed the mission.”
“I refuse to consume meatballs from a discount furniture chain.” Josh examines the store map. “What about a nightstand?”
“I have a cardboard box next to the bed.”
“Okay. Well, we came here for a dresser.”
She crosses her arms. “I have a stack of clean clothes and a pile of dirty laundry. It works fine.”
“Okay. Get up.” Josh is standing over her with his hands on his hips like an annoyed-but-hot poli sci professor. “You can’t treat your apartment like a campsite. Why did you let her take everything from you?” His voice has a trace of the self-righteous teen he must have been—a kid who grew up knowing he could claim everything he wanted.
She hauls herself to her feet. “It’s not technically ‘my’ apartment. And what was I supposed to do? Throw my body across an eight-year-old West Elm side table?” There’s a twitchy edge to Ari’s voice that somehow makes her feel more defensive. “Do you know how pathetic I felt, watching the movers struggle to maneuver the bed through the front door? I hid in the bathroom, okay?”
She braces herself for the look of pity that people offer her when she brings up these embarrassing details about that day and loses control of her emotions.