a frank discussion on antiques.

that morning, he had begged her to call in sick. “i can’t,” she replied, “don’t tempt me.” she put on heels and a pencil skirt instead, went to the office. on the subway, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. most mornings she read—catching up on the new yorker, or maybe the Bible. her ipod was in, cycling through her april playlist. he made fun of her iPod approach to music; she rolled her eyes and called him elitist. her thumb made circles across the screen of her cell phone; it was black. 

they weren’t that far from each other now—a two hour train ride, and that was only temporary. they’d probably be closer in a year or so. but still—her position wasn’t certain. if the economy didn’t swing up soon, she could easily be without employment. what if she had to go back home? hours and hours down south…what if she had to return?  she flexed her foot in her heels, and her veins tightened. she smiled, happy that at least she still had dancer’s feet. 

he liked her feet, always had. she thought about him, about him, about him him him. apparently she exhaled more loudly than she realized because her neighbor turned and gave her a curious glance. when the train stopped again, she got off. she was blocks away from her office. she rushed up the stairs to sunlight, a pro at running in heels by now—she was always late. above ground, she finally got a cell phone signal again. 

“i’m coming,” she told him. “i’m calling in sick.” she bit her lip. “i don’t know when i’ll get those submissions read,” she said, her voice trailing off. “but who cares. i’m getting on the train now.”

“good,” he said. “it’s silly to be apart.”

nothing was safe anymore, she thought, as she waited for a different train. not the real kind of safe, the reassuring safe. the best thing to do was just to waltz as if every floor was solid.  and waltzing required a partner.