FEELING FOR MY KEYS

She lived under the tracks on Broadway. At first, I figured how bad could it be? People have lived in these apartments since the dawn of New York. Then I slept there a night, then two, and three. It never got easier; the relationship and the sound of the train. There is something beautiful when you sprint up the stairs at the Marcy Ave stop. You huff and you puff, even climbing two stairs at a time, arriving on the platform and running through the train car doors as they close shut behind you. Like a piece of furniture that fits perfectly snug in the corner of the room. Tiny crumbs that carry a world of flavor.

She and I made the train plenty. At home in her apartment and at the Marcy Ave stop. There were glimpses of beauty sitting there in her kitchen. In the afternoon, the sun would shine through her yellow curtains, illuminating the room as though we were floating inside a jar of honey. At her kitchen table, we’d do the crossword.

“I’ve had it up to here with Will Shortz,” I used to tell her. “I’m going to kick his ass if I ever bump into him.”

She would laugh, rubbing my back and reminding me that “the Sunday puzzle is the most difficult,” and I’d mutter back, yeah, yeah… as I did way too often for my own good. Eventually, the crossword would come to bore us. She would sit and peel oranges. I’d watch as she manicured each one, really taking her time to peel the rind.

“Peeling an orange means I love you,” she said to me once. I was a fool to dismiss it as childish. Every plate she ever put in front of me was an admission of love, even when she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. She missed the train one too many times, and I finally decided to run.

It wasn’t until later down the road, walking alone somewhere I can’t recall, that I remembered those afternoons spent inside the honey jar. I thought of Suzanne, and Leonard Cohen, and the oranges. It was there in my pocket the whole time. Even when I dug my hands in there, I’d pretend as though I couldn’t feel it while feeling for my keys.

One night in the summer, I walked early into the morning. I didn’t want to go home. The air conditioner was broken, and I decided that I’d rather walk all night than sleep in the furnace of my bedroom. When I reached E 34th, I turned left and began heading West. I eventually went down 6th Ave and to the Village. It was a little after three, just in time for a nightcap at White Horse before they closed up shop. I unexpectedly ran into some old coworkers from a fashion job I worked. Among them, an old flame. We talked about the old job, about that time we set the fire alarm off at Highline so we could sneak into the stairwell to fuck. I told her about my air conditioner and lied that it was being replaced tomorrow afternoon. Eventually she suggested we go back to her place where it was cool.

When we got back she told me to make myself at home while she took a quick shower. I was drunk and a bit starved. I ripped open the fridge to find nothing but soy milk and tofu. Then I will starve. I turned around to find a bowl of fruit on her counter. A couple of oranges remained. I couldn’t help but peel one. I took my time and I manicured it well. I grabbed a plate from her cabinet and sat at the table alone, savoring each bite while listening to running water in her bathroom. I could faintly hear her humming The Only Living Boy in New York.

I finished up my snack and cleaned the plate as she called me to bed. She pulled back the covers and summoned me. Her eyes were hazel, and she used to correct me at work when I said they were green. Reeling me into her breasts, I kissed her lips and felt the flame arrive once again. We rolled around under the covers and at one point she pulled away, smiled at me and said, “Your hands smell like oranges.”