Cypress hated the walk home from a Friday class. There were too many people in too much hurry. Things didn’t smell good after a week of wage-slavery. Folks looked stale and dishevelled until they accepted the weekend as a reality. Maybe she was being too hard on the general public. Maybe she was the one who was worn out from a week of hard physical labor. If that was the case, she deserved some treats. And treat herself grandly is what she did. Any boutique or vegetable stand worth looking at from Greenwich Avenue to Waverly Place, she graced with her consumer dollar: artichokes; leotards; silk scarves; barrettes; asparagus; Port Salut cheese; two bottles of La Doucette because Leroy liked that; and an honest-to-god laced corset like the ones in the nasty movies where men fantasize nasty things, or so she imagined. With these delicacies and this corset over her body smelling of almonds, she’d have her way with that insanely perfect man she lived with.

It annoyed her sense of anarchy, the way he worked. From seven in the morning until one, he practiced. Then from one o’clock until three he composed. Around four he’d meet somebody for a rehearsal or keep writing music. He did this every day, even Sunday. Cypress thought that was a bit much. He made her feel like she was lazy. Yet he never criticized her use of time. She got up with him and did her hieroglyphs in needlepoint to ease her mind and soothe her ancestors, then she was off to the dance studio of her choice for class until early evening.

“No, I guess I’m not lazy,” Cypress consoled herself. “Hey, wait a minute . . .” Stopping herself in front of Balducci’s with her bags of exotic vegetables, wines, and feminine apparel. “What the fuck are we living on?” Cypress was down to her last $750.00. That was all that was left from the stash she’d brought from California. Dealing coke in New York was out of the question; she had no connections, no customers, no protection.

“Oh, Jesus, he’s a dope dealer or something, a gunrunner. Who in the hell knows. Oh shit, what am I gonna do, say ‘Leroy, do you mind if I take a lil of your trade?’ What kind of mess am I in now. I let him give me the money and I never asked where it came from. I’m such a jackass.”

The wonderful bundles lost their favored status. Cypress walked toward the loft with the air of some demented bag-lady, who’d just been pushed off her corner.

Just as she thought. Leroy was still composing music, right on schedule.