Room for Love by Andrea Meyer Page B

is a guy who doesn’t mind inhaling filth all day. This time I don’t poke around to see if his plants are dead or alive (or if he has any). I don’t check out the photos of his mom, dad, and college buddies, or notice a whole wall devoted to some big-breasted redhead. On this particular visit, I don’t get the chance to peek into the cupboards or glean the invaluable insight into a man’s taste, intellect, and psyche that one can glean from a glance at his library.
    I reluctantly cross the threshold into his apartment, breathing very slowly through my mouth.
    â€œWanna sit down?” he asks, still addressing my chest.
    â€œI don’t have a lot of time,” I say, resisting the urge to pull my shirt up over my nose. “Can I see the room?”
    Safely settled in the empty box this guy wants me to move into, where the odor is a bit less pungent, I relax. “So, this is it?” I say, glancing around. “There’s nothing in it!”
    â€œYeah, my roommate left fast, took it all.” He looks down at his feet. “You know, the guitarist from the Strokes lives downstairs.”
    â€œNeat,” I say, assuming the apartment downstairs is a smidge larger, cleaner, more fragrant. “You like the Strokes?”
    â€œOh, yeah. It’s cool that we have so many cool people living in the neighborhood.”
    â€œI agree,” I say, wandering out of the bedroom and into the mildew-infested bathroom, just a toilet stall with a rusty medicine cabinet on one wall, a cracked sink, on its edge a thumbnail-size sliver of soap the color of dishwater—Irish Spring, I presume—with blackened grooves running through it, and a shaky, particleboard cabinet on the floor, I imagine full of cleaning products and condoms.
    â€œWhat did you say you do again?” Clarence asks, making conversation.
    â€œI’m a writer and editor at a film magazine, Flicks. ”
    â€œThat sounds so cool,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I wish I liked my job better. God, you have an amazing smile.”
    â€œThanks. Thanks so much,” I say. “Look, Clarence, I kind of have to go. I’ll call you?”
    â€œYeah, that sounds great,” he says, leading me back to the door.
    I hold on to the wall outside of his building for support and fill my lungs with deep, nourishing breaths of fresh, clean New York City exhaust before hurrying back to my place. On my way home, I spot the cute hardware-store boy and his girlfriend walking Buster through the park. They’re holding hands and strolling silently, no need for words I guess after all these years. I experience a sharp pang of envy.
    When I reach my place, Alicia is IMing friends on my computer and gabbing loudly on the phone at the same time.
    â€œSo, he stands up and starts showing me judo moves,” she’s telling a friend, “you know, standing behind me, positioning my arms and hips, and I was like, he’s really cute! Then he goes, ‘Do you want some wine?’ and I was like, ‘I could use a glass.’ I couldn’t believe how cozy we were getting so fast—”
    â€œJesus fucking Christ!” I explode in the middle of her darling house-hunting tale.
    â€œOkay, okay,” she says, jumping out of my chair. “My sister’s home. Can I call you back?” She hangs up. “I’m just here for a minute. I’m sorry! I’m going to look at an apartment and going to the gym. I’ll be out of your way in, like, half an hour. I’m gonna take a really short nap. I got no sleep last night, that guy was too cute, I had to drink, I…”
    â€œAlicia, I can’t deal with this anymore.” I look around. There’s a pile of laundry on the floor, random items of clothing sprawled on my kitchen counter, a bowl of tuna that’s turning brown, an open mayonnaise jar. “Look at this shit!”
    Something dislodges in my brain and I