Nine twenty and already the apartment was a sweatbox, the trains passing every four or five minutes, not a cloud in the sky, and the sun pouring in. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but wait, so that’s what I did, watching the clock, every passing minute feeling like ten. By the time it reached eleven I felt as though an entire day had passed.

I resumed pacing, the creaking floorboards accentuating the misery in the room, sounding like cackling laughs, mocking me. I was starving but couldn’t eat, feeling nauseated and distraught. I dropped face-first into the bed, then screamed as loudly and for as long as I could into the pillow. Then I stood and punched it repeatedly, which was apparently becoming a habit, a throwback to my salad days when I’d hit the heavy bag hanging in my room to rid myself of youthful frustrations. A train roared by and I yelled “fuck.” Then, five minutes later, at exactly 11:23, Carolyn sauntered in. She looked tired, her face sallow and somewhat puffy. Her hair was a mess and she was still wearing her Starbucks uniform—black pants and shirt while the straps of her green apron hung lifelessly from her purse. I couldn’t decide if the sight of her brought relief or more rage.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.

“I’m not fighting with you right now.”

“Where in the hell were you?”

“I told you where I was.”

“Bullshit, Carolyn. Why didn’t you call?”

“I did, right after you hung up on me. I called you right back and you didn’t answer. I was going to tell you I was staying at Holly’s.”

Holly, the name I couldn’t remember.

“Well then why in the hell didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”

“I was going to.”

“Bullshit. You said, ‘I’ll talk to you later then.’ That’s what you said. Then I hung up.”

“Yeah, and then I called right back to tell you.”

“Oh you bitch, you didn’t even leave a message.”

“You’re so romantic, the way you talk to me sometimes.”

“Fuck you.”

“No thank you,” she said in a snotty, superior voice. I snatched the pillow from off the bed and hurled it at her as hard as I could, which of course did nothing but piss us both off even further, her because of the indicative display of violence, me because I wanted the damn thing to hit her with the weight and force of a television set.

“Where did you stay last night?” I asked.