When Snooping Gets Out Of Control

I'm too nauseated and jittery to sit up straight, so I lie down on his couch. I can hear him in the other room, still making his calls. I know that people are asking about me, because I can hear him say that he'll "tell her," or that "she's one." The apartment holds in the cold from the night before, so I huddle under a green-and-white Mexican blanket that he probably bought on the side of the road on one of his romantic trips with one of the many loves of his life.

After an hour or so, he comes to my side and touches my face. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I'm not either." He looks away and rubs my back. "We should go for a walk or something. Get some fresh air."

He turns back to me: "Come on."

He lifts me off the couch.

Usually, I wait for him to collect all his stuff—keys, cell phone, old newspapers, bottles—but today I walk aimlessly out the door and, step by step, drift downstairs. I pass other tenants climbing in the opposite direction. I manage to smile at them. Normally, I wouldn't feel safe standing in the street in this neighborhood, but today I walk out of the building and even down the block a little.

It's warm out—too warm for my wool sweater—but I delight in my physical discomfort, marking the beginning of what I've dubbed "instant weight-loss": no appetite, the heat, my racing heart. The pounds start dropping by the minute.

I imagine he's trailing behind, head hung, brow lifted, anticipating forgiveness. But when I turn around, I see he still hasn't left the building. I stare at a chicken bone, sucked dry, lying on the sidewalk.

When he finally arrives at my side, we begin walking, side by side, around Williamsburg in the heated September afternoon, not talking, not even looking at one another. I'm imagining which girl he was with on that trip to Mexico when he got that stupid blanket. Was it Nancy or Nina? JK or LJ? "I love you" or "Te quiero"?