Paulina & Fran
Page 17
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?
Paulina wondered if Fran still painted. She’d searched the Internet for both Frances and Francesca Hixon, finding mostly obituaries of ancient widows. Maybe she’d been painting her ass off. Maybe she’d want to stay for a while. Paulina would let her use the sunroom as a studio. It had great light and ventilation. But she was getting ahead of herself again. Fran was probably lying on Julian’s chest in that stuffy Pittsburgh apartment. Fran lacked guts. Sometimes she was full of life and longing, but other times Paulina had found her as hollow as a decorative egg.
It was well past midnight, but Paulina didn’t know the trains, how long it would take Fran to get there from whatever landfill she clung to in the Midwest. From what Julian said, it sounded like the poor thing worked in a factory all day. Onscreen, two men struggled past the camera carrying a bureau. Eugene led them to the service elevator and pushed the button for them. Paulina knew Eugene well by now. She’d watched him pass his hand over his face when he was tired, and she knew the neck stretches he did every hour. He always spoke to the cleaning crew. He knew all the tenants. She’d seen the way he chatted with his replacements—a younger, trimmer man that worked mornings, and the large woman that worked the graveyard shift, who once kept Luca waiting until Paulina picked up her phone and vouched for him.
The second time would be more nuanced. They’d be high off each other by then. Paulina would show off all she could do. The third time, Fran would surprise her. Fran would learn quickly. She’d laugh in Paulina’s arms. They’d eat between sessions and leave a huge mess in Paulina’s kitchen. One that would never truly get cleaned up.
A woman caught her eye on the television. She was about Fran’s size, but had long, straight hair. Paulina’s phone vibrated with a text from the Curl Club. She turned back to the television and watched the woman wait near the elevators. Paulina couldn’t make out her face. She stared at the woman’s low-cut dress. Paulina was so prepared for a guest, so ready for adventure, that she considered going down to the lobby to meet the woman, or asking Eugene to send her up. Paulina imagined the woman lounging around her apartment. After hours of sex, an intimacy would form. Maybe they would even fall in love. But this was nonsense. If the last decade had taught her anything, it was that no other person would do. Besides, Fran was probably walking out of the subway this very minute. The woman hesitated by the elevators and seemed to change her mind, or maybe she had forgotten something. It was impossible to tell. Paulina watched the woman as she turned and walked past the doorman’s table, through the revolving doors, to where Paulina could no longer see her.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my Mom & Dad, and to all of my family, Buck’s Rock, Flying Object, my editor Cal Morgan, my agent Claudia Ballard, Harper Perennial, Granta Books, Anne Meadows, McSweeney’s and the Amanda Davis Highwire Fiction Award, Joanna Howard, Sandy Florian, Meredith Steinbach, Mairead Byrne, Karen Rile, Noy Holland & Sam Michel, Chris Bachelder, Peter Gizzi, Lynn Bailey, John Maradik, Adam Robinson, Blake Butler, Giancarlo Ditrapano, Barbara Galletly, Mojo Lorwin, Paradise Copies, Veronika, Erin, Brent, Asher, the Xperimental People, C. S. Ward, my FO classes, my Jersey friends, and the wonderful readers: Ahrum, Anita, Anna, Arda, Carla, Cat, Chain, Chelley, Chelotti, Deweese, Edward, Ehu, Eliza, EP, ES, Ezra, Guy, Halie, Heather, Ivan, Jacob, Jono, Julio, Landman, Lauren, Leidner, Luke, Madeline, Max, Mike, Nat, Noah, Phoebe, Sarah, Shannon, Susan, and Ted.
About the Author
RACHEL B. GLASER is the author of the story collection Pee On Water and the poetry collection MOODS. She is a recipient of the McSweeney’s Amanda Davis Fiction Award, and her work has appeared in the anthologies 30 Under 30 and New American Stories. Nylon has cited her as one of the “Coolest Female Poets to Know Right Now.” She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts.
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Also by Rachel B. Glaser
MOODS
Pee On Water
Credits
Cover illustration by Kaethe Butcher
Cover typography by Nina LoSchiavo
Copyright
PAULINA & FRAN. Copyright © 2015 by Rachel B. Glaser. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-
books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-237734-0
EPub Edition September 2015 ISBN 9780062377357
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