Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [1]
And so I did. Which is why my Range Rover, which should have still smelled like a fine blend of lemon cleaner and shoe polish, now reeked like petrified puke.
The bird shit is snaking its way into the crack between the windshield and the side of the car when I notice that Mrs. Kwon is waving at me from inside of the dry cleaner. She is frantically, frantically flashing her hand through the air, with an alarmed, toothy smile that she wears just about every time I see her. Sometimes the alarm fades into cunning, but the toothiness remains the same.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
I heave myself from my car and make the steep step down to the pavement. I turn and look at the backs of my legs: They glisten from the perspiration and are pocked with marks from the seat, such that they form the perfect illusion of sheeny cellulite. I slam the door shut.
Suddenly, there is quiet. I couldn’t hear the dings. But now, I do hear the quiet.
“YOU NO LOOK so good,” Mrs. Kwon says to me. The rack of clothes that hangs across and throughout the ceiling is snaking its way forward until she presses a button, and it stops abruptly. She grabs a pole and reaches up to unhook Henry’s, my husband’s, shirts. “You not sleeping? Because you really no look so good.”
I press my lips together and morph my face into something like a smile. I can feel my cheeks digging into themselves, my dimples cratering.
“No,” I say, and shake my head. “Not sleeping too much, I guess.”
“What wrong?” Mrs. Kwon asks, as she wrestles the shirts down to our level.
“Nothing.” I shrug. My face muscles are starting to tremble from the weight of the forced smile. “Nothing at all.”
“You not being honest,” Mrs. Kwon chastises. “When you no sleep, something is always wrong.” She lands the shirts, much like how I imagine a fisherman lands his catch, and splays them across the counter.
I don’t answer. Instead, I sift through my purse for my wallet.
“Have you talk to husband about it?” Mrs. Kwon is relentless. “You always picking up his things, but I never meet him. Why? Where is he? Why he never pick up his own shirts?”
“He’s working,” I say.
“Eh,” she responds. “Men always working. They not realizing that the women are working, too.” She gestures behind her. “My husband think that because I am wife, I have to clean, cook, and still do dry-clean business. What does he do? Nothing!” She shimmies her hands even more exuberantly than normal.
I smile with what I hope to be sympathy and wait for my change, as she punches the cash register with fervor.
“You know what you need?” she asks, as the drawer to the register bounces open. “More sex.” I feel myself turning a hue of purple, which she quickly detects. “Don’t you be embarrassed! Every woman need more sex. You sleep better. Your marriage better. Sex make all things better.”
“Well, unfortunately,” I say, trying to swallow the mortification that comes with your dry cleaner giving you advice on your carnal activities, “Henry is in London. And will be for at least another week.” I don’t mention that Henry is nearly always in London or San Francisco or Hong Kong or somewhere that isn’t our quaint, homey suburb tucked away thirty miles from Manhattan, where people flee from the city life like fugitives who aren’t sure what they’re outrunning. Henry’s constant travel was the price we paid for his success as the youngest partner at his boutique investment bank.
“Oooh, that too bad.” Mrs. Kwon’s eyes grow small. “You do look like you need some good sex.” She shrugs and flashes her teeth again. “Maybe next week you look better!”
Maybe, I think, as I plod out to my sure-to-make-my-life-rosy new car. But, then again, probably not.
RIGHT THERE, I nearly moan out load. Yes, harder right there.
Garland must have intuited my angst because at that very moment, I feel his fingertips knead into my upper