Rachel Glaser - Paulina & Fran

She held the Post-it in her pocket. Thinking about Paulina so impaired her nerves that she couldn’t follow Flip and Stephen’s conversation. All sound was skewed to her, like the fake world in a seashell.

“Who are you visiting again?” Stephen asked. Fran blushed.

“Her old friend,” Flip said, “but she’s not sure how it will go.”

“I need the J train or the 6,” Fran recited. Her stomach fluttered. She looked at Flip and Stephen distantly, as if they just happened to be eating pizza at her table.

“I should go now. She’s expecting me.” It was after nine o’clock. Fran stood resolutely. Throwing her chewed pizza slice in a sidewalk trash can, she thought of a whole new set of worst scenarios — kissing Paulina and realizing she wasn’t attracted to girls. Dating Paulina for months in a gay lie. Once, freshman year, Eileen had asked her if she was bi. “I don’t know,” she had answered. And she still didn’t know.

When the subway car started moving, and the grimy tunnels spiraled away, Fran felt like she was in a robot’s intestines. Another subway car appeared across from hers and Fran glimpsed the passengers through the speeding blurs of poles and metal and blackness. People she would never know, who she might have loved! Everyone was doomed. Fran listened to Stephen and Flip compare cell phone apps. She could still go to Paulina’s later, she figured, but Paulina made her nervous.

Flip’s room in his Greenpoint apartment reminded her of the college town. He’d taped quotes and paper scraps of encouragement on the drawers of his desk. On his walls were the old heroes — Lou Reed, Kurt Vonnegut — but also a signed Gorgeous Cyclops poster. “You really wanna hear us play?” Flip asked Fran again. Fran nodded enthusiastically. Stephen slunk across the room and got his guitar from its stand.

Singing woke Stephen from his daze, and Fran felt the full power of his charm. It was clear he was singing for someone not in the room (someone from his past?), or singing to his own unknowable future. They sang sweetly, and well; their voices fell into easy harmony with each other. Fran felt like she had discovered them, whatever that meant. She was starting to talk with them about music, which she knew little about, when their roommate Phil (short athletic build, glasses) appeared, insisting they all go out dancing together. “Jenny is meeting us there!” he yelled. The boys whooped.

“Where?” Fran asked. The J train or the 6 , she thought again.

“Club Haywire,” Flip said. “You’ll love it.”

“I wish I could,” Fran said. “But I have that thing.” Her voice trailed off like steps into a basement.

Fran stood on the dance floor in her black dress. Her shoes were good dancing shoes, ones that allowed her to slide but kept her from slipping. Stephen and Flip were in the back surrounded by girls. The song was an old soul song put to a new hip-hop beat. Everyone on the dance floor threw themselves into their dancing. Lights flashed over the crowd. Fran saw open spots where she could hold court without hitting anyone.

She swayed awkwardly. Go on, she told herself. There was a flamboyant boy dancing in the middle of the crowd, and she knew he would be fun to dance-battle with. But she felt a sinking in her knees. It’s not the right people, Fran thought.

The song reached a bridge, a breakdown everyone danced to, even the DJs behind their equipment. Stephen caught her eye and waved her onto the floor. He has no idea, Fran thought. He is totally oblivious to what I do on the dance floor. She imagined dancing with him, cutting up the air around him, play-fucking him without touching any part of him. But she couldn’t move. Aches congregated in her ankles and hips. Her sinuses wove together in a stubborn knit. Stephen was persistent. He was wearing cool jeans. All the girls watched him. Fran tried to give him a provocative glare, but it came out a sad smile. She burned in her body. She could not dance.

Paulina sat in her living room with the television tuned to the live feed. The note had been a whim, almost a joke, but once she’d gotten back to the city she realized how badly she wanted Fran to show. All week long she’d wished she’d used a Sharpie. It was possible, even likely, that Julian had washed off the note unwittingly before Fran saw it. Still, something told her that Fran would make the trip. Paulina had filled her refrigerator with fancy things to eat. She’d made her bed herself and even cleaned the bathroom. Her maid had quit the week before, and Paulina hadn’t yet replaced her. Harvey had a company he used, but they gave him different maids every week. Paulina liked consistency. She wanted someone accountable when her suede was ruined.

From ten o’clock to ten thirty, Paulina stared at the television expectantly. As the clock neared eleven, her mind played against her, and she started doubting Fran would show. She had so much nervous energy that when one of the cats ran by, Paulina chased after it. The cats had a whole life together; they rarely looked to Paulina for comfort. They watched her with cold lizard eyes. The white cat nuzzled the black one. Paulina was just their roommate, not their friend. She willed herself to stop glancing at the television. If Fran arrived, Paulina would hear the buzzer, or a knock, or Eugene would call up from the desk. Paulina sat purposefully in the dining room where she couldn’t see the screen. It was a good screen, one of those plasma ones. It was alive, or something. She couldn’t remember.

After trying on countless outfits, Paulina had settled on velvet leggings and a Proenza Schouler silk shirt that wrinkled with her every thought. Over the course of the last hour, the velvet had picked up lint and cat hair. Paulina resisted the urge to change, instead lowering herself to the carpet and attempting the exercises her personal trainer was always begging her to do. Jasmine said that Hank was a great lay, but with Paulina he was all business. He genuinely seemed to care about Paulina’s health.

Paulina would offer Fran a glass of water. Or would they just immediately start kissing? Could they skip the talking? There was nothing to say, really. They could talk after. The first time would go pretty quick. Paulina pictured wild grasping, probably with the lights on. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Maybe on the living room couch. Paulina’s phone buzzed with meaningless texts from Luca.

The exercises were exhausting. Crawling back to the living room couch, Paulina noticed a philosophy book Julian had given her with much ceremony. Its fat spine was visible under a pile of junk mail. I’ll read when I’m dead, she thought.

Every time Paulina glanced at the television, there was some poor soul lingering by the desk. Old men, families, teenagers, deliverymen. The camera faced Eugene, the doorman behind the desk, instead of the guests. It must have been a privacy measure. When the guests turned toward the elevator, Paulina saw their profiles.

Her weekend was totally free. Clive had invited her to brunch, but she’d refused to commit. It was always a scene at his place, one she’d grown bored of, though sometimes people there amused her — old eccentrics Clive had handpicked from his Botanica Ramses dealings. His style line was thriving, but she wasn’t jealous. The fags will inherit the earth, she thought, and felt the corners of her lips twitch into a smile.

Paulina adjusted her breasts in her bra. There was food from Zabar’s they could eat tomorrow, or she could easily get a table at L’Apicio by calling ten minutes before they left. The weather report showed possible rain for Saturday. They could just stay in. They’d have so much to catch up on. But afterward they’d pull themselves together and greet the world. Paulina could see them leaving her apartment, the pavement newly wet from rain, the leaves trembling in the breeze. They could go to an art museum, if Fran was still into art. Or Royce had a pretty wild collection in his apartment, if Fran wanted to lick a Warhol or something. Plus her own apartment had some good pieces. The Peter Halley painting in the bathroom had warped — whoops! Whatever. Luca said it couldn’t be fixed. What, would they indict her for it? The skinny, old art people. Would they drag her to the gallows?