Dove vanishes. I continue to hold Ophelia’s hair and rest my hand on her back, feeling her body arch and shiver as she gets sick. It’s unpleasant, but I feel nothing but pain for Ophelia as she voids herself of the night—the alcohol, the partying, and the grief. Dove returns, and between the two of us, we manage to get Ophelia to drink water and nibble on a few saltines.
Dove starts the shower. My cue to exit.
“Make yourself at home,” Dove says over her shoulder. “Whatever!”
I leave the girls to it and close the bathroom door behind me.
In the brief silence, I give myself a moment to take stock of my surroundings.
I am in Dove’s apartment.
It feels strangely sacred, like entering a temple. The apartment is small—typical of city apartments. There’s a kitchen that joins a…whateverroom, I suppose. A couple of beat up couches, a TV, and a window crisscrossed with a fire escape, overlooking the street. To the right is the bathroom and two closed doors—presumably, Dove and Ophelia’s bedrooms. The apartment is swathed in rich sepia tones—oranges and reds and yellows. Brown bookcases overstuffed with books, a beaten, patterned rug under the small coffee table. There’s a painting on the wall and I take a moment to stare at it. It’s—literally—on the wall, painted onto the open brick. It’s a painting of a woman lying on her side, dreaming. Her hair tumbles down and down, until it’s caught by a monster with long fingers and wild eyes. The monster swallows her hair, as though devouring her dreams.
As I stare at the picture, I notice I’m not alone. Someone is breathing, loudly. I glance down to see a French bulldog at my feet. It’s as wide as it is long and it looks up at me with this crazed, loopy smile. Each breath sounds like an asthmatic old woman.
“Hello,” I say. It pants at me.
I crouch down and rub my thumb and forefinger together. I give the animal atsk-tsksound. I’m a cat person—not a dog person—but it seems to work all the same. The dog pushes its flat, lumpy snout against the back of my hand. After a couple sniffs, it starts licking, these long, wet kisses.
Disgusting.
I love it.
The bathroom door clicks. I glance up to see Dove back in the room with me.
“I see you’ve met Spud,” she says.
“Spud. Aptly named.”
I straighten back up. She steps close to me. She pulls her fingers through my jacket. “Shit—she nailed you.”
I was, unfortunately, in the splash zone. “It’s fine,” I tell her.
“Take it off. I’ll throw it in the wash.”
Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument. I remove my jacket and shirt. They have a washer and drier stacked next to the kitchen, and Dove opens the washer, tosses my shirtin, and then struggles out of her own clothes. Now, she’s in nothing but cute, black panties and a small, dark bra.
She bends over, tossing everything in the wash. She has a perfect body—supple in all the right places. Blood vessels tighten. My heart picks up a beat.
Dove crosses the room and goes into her bedroom. She leaves the door slightly ajar and I can’t help but sneak a look in. It’s dim, but I can make out the chaos of Dove’s life—clothes, books, half-finished craft projects—all scattered about her tiny space.
“Can I help?” I ask.
A ball of fabric comes sailing out of her bedroom, straight at me. I catch it. “You can put that on,” she says.
I unfold it. It’s a fleece sweater with the word HARVARD across the front. Men’s size.
“An ex-boyfriend’s?” I ask. There’s no hiding the sting of jealousy in my voice.
“My brother’s. He never went, he just…has a weird sense of humor.”
She exits the bedroom. She’s pulled on a long t-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts.
She may as well be wearing top-of-the-line lingerie, the way by body responds to her. I’m worse than Spud, panting in the corner.Settle down, boy.
I pull on the sweater. It smells of frat boy and, faintly, of Dove.
Dove re-enters the bathroom with a, “hey, me again…” She transfers Ophelia from the bathroom to her bedroom. She comes back with Ophelia’s soiled dress. She throws it all in the wash and the machine rolls and thumps to life.
