April Third

Dear Nick,

April third was a rough night, a turning point, really. We got home late, but I stayed up even later, writing. This is what I wrote. It's not the whole night, but it's a good start.

Love,
Holly

I knock on his door. He has the phone to his ear, but I still talk.

“Two weeks? You won’t be back for the concert.”

“Holly’s here. Yeah, thanks for cleaning my apartment.”

“Tell you sister I say hi,” I said.

“She says hi. Lola says hi back. She says thanks for the cupcakes. Oh wait, for the cupcake offer. She says you’re kind.”

“I’m mad at you. I’m really mad.”

“I’ve got to go. Thanks for everything.”

“Come over when you’re off the phone. I’m really upset.”

I go down the stairs to my apartment. Goose throws his head back and howls when I come in, but he forgot to use his voice. He’s a silent, muted dog. I can’t wait around for Nick. I have to be doing something. I empty the dishwasher. That takes three minutes. I make my bed; another three minutes. The door’s unlocked, he knows to just come in. I start a movie, a German movie whose plot is too complex for Nick to understand right now. He’ll suggest that we stay and watch it, and I’ll say it’s too complicated for him to catch up on. A subtle dig.

Twenty minutes later and he’s not here. I call him.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Are you coming here?”

“Are you coming down?”

“I’m down. You’re up. Are you coming or not?”

“You’re really mad about what I said yesterday, aren’t you?”

“Should I be? I’m not mad about yesterday. I’m mad about right now.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Two minutes later he’s here. He’s wearing different pajama pants. They’re blue and too small. The steroids are making him fat. His butt pulls at the fabric, rounds out the seams. He comes in and goes straight for the thermostat.

“Is it hot in here?”

“Not really. I’m fine.”

“Mind if I change it?”

He’s already turning the AC on, so I don’t bother to answer.

“I’m really mad. Two weeks? You’ll miss the concert.”

“I’ll be back. When’s the concert?”

“A week from Saturday.”

“Oh, I should be back before then. What’s today?”

“April third.”

“When’s the concert?”

“The twelfth.”

“I’ll be back.” He gets on the computer and logs on to his email’s calendar. “Look at all this shit. Look at this. So much stuff, there’s so much going on. Life is too busy. How can I get anything done with all this life in the way? There’s so much. Last week was crazy. Look at that, appointments every day. I have to put life on hold.”

“That’s the past. You don’t have much coming up.”

“Look. A weekend bachelor party in LA I’m missing. Another in Las Vegas. Two weddings. Doctor’s appointments. Basketball, concerts, appointments.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m in a bad mood. I’m sorry. I’m grumpy. I just woke up.”

“I’m grumpy too. PMS sucks.”

He’s silent for a minute, looking out the window. I have a view of the downtown, with city lights edging the street leading to more lights in the distance.

“If we’re both grumpy we probably shouldn’t hang out. We aren’t helping each other.”

“I’ll get over it. I’m grumpy because I can’t get mad if you miss the concert because you are sick and that’s not under your control. I can’t get mad because you have a good reason to not be here. I’m grumpy because you are sick and it screws things up.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“I know.”

“I hate it here. I hate the city. No offense, but I have no reason to be here. It’s so ugly. At home, you open the windows, and,” he takes a deep breath, acting out opening the windows. “And everything is green and covered with flowers. And the birds sing. The birds sing. It’s beautiful.”

“This city isn’t that bad. Right now it sucks, but it’s pretty sometimes.”

“I need to go on a walk.” He looks at his reflection in the mirror. “I’m getting so fat.” He goes into my bathroom and I hear him step on the scale. “I’ve gained five pounds.”

“It’s raining outside. We can’t go on a walk. It’s cold and rainy.”

“Want to walk side-by-side on the treadmills in the gym?”

“Not really. If I’m going to work out, I’m going to work out. Want to get dinner or see a movie?”

“Yeah, what’s playing?”

We look up movie times at the theater across the street. There are a few good leads.

“I’m tired. I need caffeine.”

“Starbucks?” I suggest.

“I need to change,” he says.

He leaves to change, and I tell him I’ll be up in a few minutes. I throw on a pair of polka-dot galoshes over my yoga pants and a big gray sweater that falls off my shoulder. I go up to his place. The door’s unlocked. It’s always unlocked when he’s expecting me.

“I’m in the closet. I don’t know what to wear.”

“You’re in jeans? I didn’t know we were wearing real clothes.”

“They’re just jeans. I don’t know what to wear.” He’s holding an argyle sweater.

“Wear that. It’s nice.”

“Do you have any argyle? We could match.”

“No, I don’t own anything argyle.”

“Not even socks?”

“Not even socks.”

“Come in. Pick something out.”

“Your closet’s a bit small for the two of us.”

“Oh yeah.” He steps further into the closet.

“Just wear the argyle. It matches your gray shirt. I need to change if you’re going to wear real clothes.”

“You look great.”

“Thanks.”

He finishes getting ready and we go back to my place. On the way down he starts talking about the a cappella group he was in while at undergrad. He can’t remember the name.

“Speak of the Dark? That doesn’t make sense. Speak of the… speak of the… I don’t remember. Dark? Everything was Blue Devils. That was the mascot, the Blue Devil.”

“We didn’t have a mascot. We had the color blue.”

“Where did you go again?”

“TheBadPlace. You know that, Nick.”

“Oh yeah, I know that.”

“Speak of the Devil?”

“Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

Goose growls at Nick when I open the door. I go into my room to change into jeans. When I come out, Nick’s found the website for his old a cappella group.

“I arranged this song,” he says as he pushes play.

“I love that song. It reminds me of this guy I dated in undergrad.”

“This part is me,” he says. “Not the solo. The second part.” He points in the air, directing the voices.

“I love it,” I say.

“I miss music.”

“Me too.”

He looks around youtube, looking for video of the group.

“I should play my cello for you,” I suggest.

“I’d like that.”

I get the cello out of my room and start to tune the strings. I haven’t played in six months, at least. A few years ago the A string broke as I was tuning it and the string whipped around to lash my neck. I’m still scared of tuning the A. I hold the body close to me, the wood pressed against my thighs as I slowly adjust the pegs, plucking the taught strings to check their pitch.

“Hold this,” I say, passing him the cello. I get the case from my room and remove the bow. Despite neglect, the bow still has enough rosin, so I tighten it, take the cello from Nick, and play a two octave scale.

“That was great,” he says.

“It sucked. I suck. It’s been at least six months.”

“You missed a note, but it was still great. You’re great.”

“Thanks. Want to play?”

I pass him the cello and he sits down.

“You need to scoot to the edge of the chair. Not that far.” I adjust the way the cello sits between his legs. He grabs the bow and he glides it across the strings.