Pug Hill - Alison Pace [14]
And it’s not that I embrace the criticism from Mom, I certainly don’t, but from her at least I can understand it. Mom is an interior decorator. It’s in her nature to want everything to be pretty. And also, no matter what the religion of the man she married, she is also very much a Jewish mother; some might say it’s in her nature to be critical in, of course, a loving, albeit slightly annoying way. I don’t have an excuse for Evan.
The taxi pulls up outside of Evan’s building, and, as has been happening lately, I am overwhelmed by the desire to be in my own apartment. And maybe that doesn’t necessarily have to be a comment on how I feel about Evan, maybe it’s just because all my stuff is there, and Evan has really bad pillows. Once we are on the sidewalk, I turn to him.
“I think I’m just going to head home. I think I’m just going to stay at my apartment tonight.”
“Why?” he asks back quickly, right away.
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not a big deal, it’s just my stuff is there, and it’s easier for me.” I look behind him, across Columbus Avenue and into the store that’s right across the street. I focus on the mannequins in the window: they’re not whole mannequins, they’re just the legs, wearing pants.
“Maybe it’s not always about being easy for you,” Evan says, drawing my attention back to him, away from the pants. “Maybe you’d just want to sleep at my apartment because sometimes it’s nice for me to stay at my apartment? Maybe you’d just want to sleep at my apartment to do something nice for me?” He stares at me, eyes bulging accusingly. I can see that this is not the exact best time to say that generally we do stay at his apartment, and that if you counted all the times he’s slept at my apartment, and then counted all the times I’ve slept at his apartment, his apartment—with all the messiness everywhere, covering every single surface, with the complete lack of any pillows that are either decorative or soft—would come out on top.
Evan’s eyes debulge ever so slightly and he asks, “I mean when was the last time you did something just to be nice to me?”
I stare back at him. I think how just yesterday I received a CNN Breaking News e-mail about how a cow in the United States had tested positive for mad cow disease. Evan is very disciplined with his low-carb diet; I have never seen him eat so much as a grain of rice, yet I have seen him eat countless hamburgers. I forwarded that e-mail to him right away. I am about to point this out, but I feel we are just moments away from jumping onto the hamster wheel that is late-night arguing and not getting any sleep, at either of our apartments, and there’s something to be said, I think, for not doing that. There’s something to be said for not always having to be alone in your apartment, or I guess, come to think of it, the world.
“You’re right,” I say and watch his expression soften. I take a step in the direction of Evan’s apartment, and he falls right in step beside me.
chapter five
Set Me Free, Why Don’t You, Babe
On Sunday morning, I wake up not at Evan’s apartment, but at mine; but still, I don’t feel right. It’s been four days now that I’ve known about the speech, and every morning when I wake up, without a solution appearing out of thin air, I feel a little bit more like the walls are closing in.
I look over at the sleeping Evan: so still, so quiet, so non-judgmental, so much easier to get along with this way. So as not to wake him, I slide silently out of bed and into the bathroom. And after the ease that is getting oneself together when one has all their stuff so easily accessible, I actually feel quite appreciative of Evan, appreciative that at the end of the