Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

It’s now almost midnight and I can’t even see what’s going on in the common room downstairs, because what if Russ and Sharon walk by and see me sprawled pathetically on the infested couch, stuffing my face with chips?

I flip the channel again and see Russ and Sharon in the entranceway.

Oh. My. God.

I still can’t believe this average albeit attractive woman is the Sharon. When I met her in the entrance the other day I was shocked. This is my rival? This is the other woman?

I should have told her right then and there who I was.

Okay, fine, technically I’m the other woman, but nevertheless, she’s not what I expected. I thought she’d be tall and blond and waiflike, but she she’s kind of average. Like Joey from Dawson’s Creek but with less angst. She has shoulder-length brown hair, big brown eyes and a small slightly turned-up nose.

He opens the door for her, slowly kissing the spot on her neck between her chin and scarf.

I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see them all loving and happy.

I keep watching.

She takes off her gloves and runs her right hand through his hair.

My eyes fill with tears, angry tears, sad tears, the screen blurs, and the next thing I know they’re gone.

How could he kiss her like that? How can he act like he loves her but then sleep with me? What is wrong with him?

Why do I let him get away with it?

Right now they’re climbing the stairs. I should meet them at the top. I should tell him to go fuck himself. I should tell her what he’s been doing-screwing me. I should shake my fist and scream and make her realize the truth, make them both feel as shitty as I do.

Maybe I will.

I smooth my hair and slide out of Layla’s room.

The hallway is empty and I stomp toward the staircase. I open the stairway door, listening to their voices coming from the second floor.

“I think I had too much wine,” she says, giggling.

“You only had two glasses,” he answers, and from where I am, I can see him patting her on the head.

“I’m a cheap date,” she says. Then she adds, “I had a terrific time tonight.”

I clench my hands into fists and anchor them to my hips.

Sharon stumbles over a step and giggles again. “I’d better not get sick tonight,” she says, still laughing.

“I’ll take care of you,” he answers.

They’re about to turn the corner in the stairwell, where they’ll see me. Any second now.

I think I’m going to be sick.

I can’t do this.

I step out of the stairwell, back into the hallway, unlock my door and, just as I hear them approaching, I close my door, tears streaming down my face.

Monday, February 16, 10:00 a.m.

One shovel of earth. Two.

The rabbi is saying the mourners’ prayer, and my mother is tightly holding onto my father.

My bubbe died at eleven-forty Saturday night. I was downstairs getting my mother a hot chocolate. Bubbe was sleeping. I came back to the room and found chaos-my mother was wailing, my sisters and niece had shown up and they were also crying, and the doctor was trying to calm everyone down. I was drowning in both panic and relief. Relief that she is no longer afraid.

No more fear. Now she’s in a box, buried next to my grandfather, whose headstone reads, Abraham Rosinsky, 1912-1990. Summary of their lives: they married in Warsaw in 1937, survived the camps, met up again in 1946, emigrated to America in 1948, had two kids, my mother and my uncle, had seven grandkids and are survived by six of them.

It comes down to that, a summary.

Is she with my grandfather now? I don’t believe in an afterlife, but what do I know? Did my bubbe believe in one? Maybe she did. Maybe she wasn’t afraid to die. I wish I had asked her.

How do you ask someone who is about to die if she’s afraid?

If I had really wanted to know, I would have asked.

I glance around at the clusters of gravestones. Two rows over, a tombstone says Nathan Mandel, 1975-1992. Poor Nathan Mandel. How did he die at seventeen? What happened to ill-fated Nathan Mandel? Leukemia? Car accident? Drug overdose?

The sun is shining directly on my head, burning my scalp. The bright weather makes the cemetery seem almost obscene. My mother grips my hand tighter.

My bubbe’s death is sad, but I wouldn’t call it a tragedy. She had a full life. Nathan Mandel, that was a tragedy.

But why is longevity important when we’re all going to die, anyway? Is the purpose of life merely life? What about courage and integrity? What about loving and being loved?

I feel a rush of panic. Life is short, and I don’t want to waste it. I want to make sure that every day is filled with things that make me and others happy.

Layla. Why haven’t I told her how I felt about her?

When I called the dorm earlier today, wanting to hear her voice, I got her machine: “Hi! This is Layla. I’m in New York for the weekend. You can call me on my cell at 212-555-6782 or leave a message. And happy Valentine’s Day!”

She was probably in New York for another interview. Good for her! I smiled at her chirpiness, then hung up before saying anything. I didn’t know what to say. I debated calling her in New York, but decided against it. What would I say to her? Standing here in the hot sunlight, looking at the coffin and the gravestones, I know what I want to tell her, but it’s the sort of thing that should be said in person, not over the phone.

I want to tell her I love her.

1:00 p.m.

“Russ, sweetie, time to wake up. It’s already afternoon. Happy President’s Day.”

I blink my eyes open and pat Kimmy’s hair.

My eyes shoot open. Oh, man. Sharon’s hair. Sharon’s hair, not Kimmy’s.

My heart speeds up. Better hope I don’t confuse their names out loud. I open my mouth to say something but then close it, not trusting my own voice.

Having Sharon here is confusing the hell out of me. On the one hand, I love seeing her. How could I not? I love those ears. On the other hand, having her in such close vicinity to Kimmy fills me with dread. Don’t like when worlds collide.

She sits up and stretches. “What do you want to do today?”

“Relax?” Let my heart rate go back to normal, for starters. I need to get out of the Zoo. Out of the bed I’ve slept in with Kimmy. It’s freaking me out. “Let’s go shower, then take a walk and get some lunch.”

We get out of bed and Sharon starts straightening the linen. She reaches between the comforter and wall to pull out the pillow that fell over. “Russ?”

“Yeah?” I say while searching for a clean towel.

“What’s this?”

She’s eyeing me suspiciously and holding the DVD jacket of Sex and the City, season two.

Shit. Kimmy must have left it here.

Now why would I be watching season two of Sex and the City? As far as Sharon knows I’ve never even seen season one. There’s no superhero in Sex and the City.

Her eyes are squinting in mistrust.

Shit. Shit. Shit. The only reason I would I have Sex and the City here is because I was watching it with a chick.

Or…

“I borrowed it from a female friend to use as porn,” I blurt. Heart pounding. What the hell did I just say? That’s just gross. Did she buy it?

She continues staring at me, then shakes her head. “That’s so pathetic.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time. And I need to release myself sometimes.”

She laughs, tiptoes over to me and kisses me on the lips. “You should call me next time. We can have-” she lets her hand roam over the seat of my pants “-phone sex.”