Stephanie Danler - Sweetbitter

“I’m sorry. That was weird.”

“Not at all. It’s a nice tub. Aren’t you glad I kept it?”

She started moving through her books with her eyes and hands, as if she were tracing a pattern in the air. She was in jeans now, but still in the wifebeater, and she had her glasses on. The coffee was hot and the light had shifted. I had no idea how long I’d been out but the light told me I had overstayed. The spell of softness had broken. She pulled books from the shelves and stacked them on the table.

“Miami?” I said, hopeful, holding the mug out.

“How much can you carry?”

“I’ll take the L back, so whatever you want.” I was dazed. “It’s only one stop.”

“Hmm…”

“Do you want to go to lunch?” I asked too loudly. “I mean, do you want to go to lunch with me? I mean, take you out to lunch. For the books. For having me over.”

“That sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I have plans today. Another time.”

I wanted to cry. “Well, I’m going to have lunch. Is there a good place for me? By myself. To have lunch.”

“Um…” She seemed distracted. Lunch, Simone! I wanted to scream. Food! Take me seriously. “There’s Life Café on the park. You might like that. You can sit outside. It’s nice out — is it nice out? God, it’s getting late.”

She nodded at the stack, six books, two larger than any textbook I had in college. She went to the kitchen and got plastic grocery bags. She tapped her lips, scanning the room, concentrating.

“And here.” She skipped to a shelf and pulled a slim volume.

“Emily Dickinson?”

“It’s time to revisit the patron saint of wild nights.”

“Emily Dickinson?”

“Just enjoy it. And really look at those maps of France. Nothing will teach you about the wine but the land. Keep an eye out for stories — wine is history, so look for the threads.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t move. Her energy was pushing me toward the door but I didn’t want to go. I looked around the room, grasping.

“Well, thank you for the coffee. What kind of coffee is that?”

“It’s excellent, right?” She opened the door and stood to the side. I stepped into the hallway.

“Can I come back?”

“Of course, of course,” she said but it was too enthusiastic. “Soon. And for a proper meal.” When she said Soon it sounded like Never.

“See you tomorrow.”

She was already shutting the door. I made it to the bottom flight of stairs before I started crying.

Sometimes my sadness felt so deep it must have been inherited. It had a refrain, and though I evened out my breathing by the time I got to First Avenue, the refrain wouldn’t leave me. It was guttural and illogical and I repeated it endlessly like a chant: Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. All the way home, against the bored, anorexic kids on Bedford Avenue, against the lurid tinkling of bodega music, and the dull thunder of the J train on the bridge. I heard myself say it out loud when I got into my bedroom. I kicked the mattress that lay on the floor. That’s when I realized how far away I was. I saw the ravine. I had traveled a great distance, just one stop away. Please don’t leave me. I guess it made sense — I had never felt more alone.

—

ON MONDAY MORNING Flower-Girl came armed with cinnamon sticks, bay leaves, and waxed apples. The cooks came out of the kitchen on fake errands so they could look at her. Her voice was like a Disney princess’s when she said hello to me. Birds twittering. But the arrangements turned out understated and, it pained me to say, beautiful.

I walked the Greenmarket stalls during my break. The leaves were riotous but I couldn’t focus on them. I only saw apples. Stacked, primed for tumbling. Empires, Braeburns, Pink Ladies, Macouns. Women in tights, men in scarves. Vats of cider, steaming. I bought an apple and ate it.

Did I understand the fragrance and heft? The too-sweetness of the pulpy flesh? Had I ever felt the fatality of autumn like my bones did now, while I watched the pensive currents of foot traffic? A muted hopelessness pressed on me. I lay under it. At that point I couldn’t remember the orchards, the blossoms, the life of the apple outside of the city. I only knew that it was a humble fruit, made for unremarkable moments. It’s just food, I thought as I finished it, core and all. And yet it carries us into winter. It holds us steady.

—

JAKE CHECKED the lights twice, swaying as he came up. He threw on his leather jacket, it thudded onto his shoulders. One lapel had a massive pin, a gold anchor. Then everyone in unison put on leather jackets. I imagined them calling each other, saying, Today’s leather jacket day. Where did they get them?

“Are you going for one?” someone asked him.

“One sounds all right,” he said.

We went outside. The air tasted of steel knives and filtered water. An actual chill like a warning.

The bar was four deep. The crowd was different — loud, blandly preppy and undergraduate. We walked into a dank cloud of perspiration. I split off from Will and Ariel and made my way to the back corner. Limbs in my face, my hands wedging into the crowd. Someone grabbed my fingers. I yanked my arm back and when I threw my purse on the floor I turned and yelled, “I can’t breathe.”

I forgot how tall he was. When I turned Jake was up against me like it was the subway during rush hour, my nose lined up with his clavicle. The leather blotted out my vision. Someone pushed him from behind and my nose touched his chest. Bergamot, tobacco. I looked up at him. Shit.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi there,” he said.

I sucked in my lips. He didn’t move to go anywhere. Not to the bar, to the bathroom, not even to remove his coat.

“Excuse me,” someone screeched and pushed him again. He braced his arms above my head. His sweat, his smell.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” said Ariel, shoving through and handing me a beer.

“Thank you,” I said. I put it to my forehead. “I don’t think I can be in here tonight.”

“Suit yourself, Skip. Tell me before you leave.” She looked back and forth between us. “So I know you’re safe or whatever. Vivian’s dying up there.”

I gulped the beer. Wait out the silence, that was my plan. He would say something.

“We can split this,” I said. He took the bottle, tilted it, I watched his Adam’s apple, and he handed it back to me. His eyes were asking me a question. I nodded.

“You never talk to me,” I said.

“I don’t?”

“No. You don’t seem to like me.”

“I don’t?”

His eyes colorless, cloudy, collected. His teeth wine stained. He leaned in. “You’re very affected by things. A gust of wind throws you. You take everything seriously.”

His breath like malt and violets, gripping.

“I do,” I said.

“I like that.”

“But you don’t seem to take anything seriously.”

He scanned the room and his eyes came back to me every few seconds when someone bumped into us.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I feel like we’re talking. But we’re not talking.”

He reached out and grabbed a piece of my hair. He twirled it around his finger. I was not breathing.

“How’s that bruise?”

“It’s fine,” I said. I turned my cheek away even though it had nearly faded. He dropped my hair. “I’m going to sue. Those stairs are idiotic.”

He nodded, patient. Wolfish cheekbones, angular, ascetic face. Rings on long fingers, a rose, a half skull, a gold Mason seal.

“Is that Yorick?” I asked, pointing to his skull ring.

“That’s a problem,” he said. He took the beer from me. “I don’t flirt with girls who read.”