Page 58 of Woman on the Verge

“I like complicated people. I am one myself.”

“I beg to differ. You seem to be a very simple person, and I mean that in the best way possible.”

“You don’t know me well yet,” he says, grinning.

“And you don’t know me well yet either.”

“I think we can agree there is something good between us, yes?”

I roll my eyes. “I believe the amount of sex we’ve had in a short amount of time can attest to that.”

“And I know I’ve told you this already, but I haven’t really felt this kind of connection before.”

You’re only thirty,I want to say. Really, though, I haven’t felt this kind of connection either, but I can’t disclose that. If I do, that means we are admitting that we have something special, something unique, something promising. I am in no position to have something special, unique, or promising.

“It could all be chemical, you know,” I say.

He doesn’t seem deterred. “So you don’t believe in soulmates?”

Now my eyes go wide.Soulmates?

“No,” I say, “I do not believe in soulmates.”

I do not need this poor man to believe I am his soulmate. I most certainly am not.

He nods. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“I guess I’m the romantic of the two of us,” he says.

“I guess you are.”

His phone, on the table next to him, lights up with a text. He glances at it.

“Food’s ready,” he says.

He stands, goes to the kitchen counter to retrieve a set of keys from an empty fruit bowl.

“You cool staying here? It’s right down the street, so I won’t be long.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” I say.

He gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves.

I am alone in his apartment. He trusts me to be alone in his apartment. It’s baffling. I look around for a camera. Everyone has cameras now, don’t they? I don’t see anything, so I take it upon myself to snoop. He doesn’t have much—as I said, he seems to be a rather simple person. His bookshelves are full, mostly with nonfiction books about various topics—global warming, racism, feminism (yes, feminism). There is a framed photo of him with an older woman who must be his mother. They have the same nose, the same smile. She is white. He mentioned that in one of his texts, said he often dates strong white women and maybe that’s because he was raised by a strong white woman. I’d teased him about having an Oedipus complex.

There’s nothing of interest in his medicine cabinet, no antidepressants or herpes antivirals or whatever else. He has dental floss and toothpaste and mouthwash. That’s it. He doesn’t even have face wash, which is shocking considering how beautiful his skin is.

In the bedroom, there’s only space for his bed, a small dresser, and his nightstand. I open the drawer, find the roll of condoms we are depleting. There are two left. There’s a phone charger, earplugs, a book on meditation.

I wonder if Elijah has ever committed a sin before I came along—a real sin, I mean. Then again, if a man sleeps with a married woman, is he saddled with a derogatory term? Women sleeping with married men are called mistresses. Is there a male equivalent? I don’t think so. Patriarchal society may look at men sleeping with married women assmart—enjoying the milk without buying the cow, so to speak. Elijah seems to want the cow, though. I am, rightfully, the cow.

I hear the door open and rush back to the kitchen. He can tell I’ve just come from his bedroom, though. I’m sure I look caught.

“Snooping?” he says.

“Guilty.”

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