Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

And there’s his Hyundai. And he’s shoving a box into the trunk.

“Hi,” he says, surprised to see me.

I kiss him before he can say anything, then pull back and look at his face. “I am so sorry. I should never have freaked out the way I did. You are a terrifically imperfect man who’s perfect for me.”

That so didn’t come out right. He doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly. Maybe it’s too late. He got over Kimmy. Maybe he’s over me. Is he now going to turn this all into a joke and blow me off? “Well?” I ask, hands on hips. “Tell me how you feel. Straight up. I can’t take a joke.”

He brushes my hair away from my face, then runs his finger from my ear, across my cheek, to my lips. He looks into my eyes and I lose my breath. And then he kisses me.

Wednesday, June 2, 1:30 p.m.

The sky over Forty-second Street is a gorgeous milky-blue, and I can’t stop smiling. I love this city. The honking, the energy, the tossed salad I have tucked under my arm (as per Layla’s passionate suggestion). I especially love Layla’s apartment. I’ve already been there a week, and I still can’t get over the place. The floors are hardwood, the bathroom has a Jacuzzi and toilet with a seat warmer, the bed is a pillow-top-king draped in Ralph Lauren sheets softer than a kitten’s fur, the view is of the entire city, and a housekeeper comes every Monday. And Layla refuses to charge me rent, since she owns the place. She didn’t even stay with me on the weekend when she visited-she shacked up with Jamie at his sublet. They appear to be madly in love, always cooing in each other’s faces and referring to each other by nicknames. He calls her his orange, and she calls him her banana. I’m guessing the orange thing has something to do with their juggling adventures, and I so don’t want to know about the banana. “You missed out” is all I’d let her tell me.

I wave to the doorman and click-clack against the marble floor in the lobby toward the elevator that will take me to the forty-eighth floor. Yesterday, my first day at work, I spent ten minutes confused as to why the elevator I was standing in didn’t have any buttons that went past forty. I thought I was in the wrong building, walked back outside, came back in…then realized that there were multiple elevators, each assigned to a block of twenty floors. Who knew?

This elevator, my elevator, only stops on floors forty to sixty. As my elevator zips skyward through the building, my ears pop, and I watch the news on the flat-screen TV, smiling. I know eventually that I’ll stop feeling like the entire city is paved with gold, but for now I’m enjoying the ride.

I’m happy. Despite having my period. I threw out my pills the day Russ went back to Toronto. My body needs a break. Time to find its natural rhythm again. Whatever that is.

We come to a nice smooth stop. I’m about to step out when a cute dark-haired guy in a blue-striped suit steps into my path. Oops. I realize we’re only on the forty-fifth floor, not my stop.

“Hey, Kimmy, good to see you,” he says, still standing in front of me. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t remember his name. I think he’s the partner I talked to during the interview dinner, the man who made Russ so jealous. Smiling, he says, “I’m Johnny Dollan, in case you’ve forgotten. We met back in January. Didn’t mean to block your path. Is this your floor?”

He shuffles in beside me, smiling at me over his shoulder.

“No,” I say, and hit the door-close button. “I’m going up.”

Twenty-something Sarah Mlynowski was born in Montreal, Canada, and has an honors degree in English literature from McGill University. She is currently a full-time novelist in New York, and her books have been published in more than sixteen countries. Monkey Business is her fourth novel.

If you’d like to say hello, visit her Web site at www.SarahMlynowski.com.