Page 26 of The End of Summer

Which is why, when Big Mike said he had an idea for a way to get me paid quickly and in cash, I listened. Sure, it sounded suspect. But I wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone. The job was simply to dance for 30 minutes to an hour and make the women feel attractive.

$800 for 60 minutes or less?Fine,I decide now, after a (thorough) shower, a toasted English muffin with butter, and a glass of water from the tap.Maybe it was worth it.

It’s just as I’m turning off the faucet from washing my plate in the sink that I hear keys jingling out in the hallway. Before I can stop myself, I grab the dishtowel and dry my hands, then swing my door open and pop my head out.

Gretchen startles, dropping her tote bag by accident. “Shit!” she seethes. “You fucking scared me!”

I study her. Same color hair. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and an oversized UMass t-shirt. She could be coming from anywhere. Until –shit, there it is –I notice the mermaid scales on the underwear that spilled outof her bag onto the ground. She bends down to pick up her things, hastily sweeping the panties back into the bag. Then, she stands up and looks at me. I’m awkwardly facing her, each standing at our apartment doors. Wordless.

Until –

“You!” we both scream and point in unison.

“Iknewit was you!” I exclaim.

“How isthiswhat you’re doing on a Friday night?” she retorts.

“Shh,” I admonish her. “Keep your voice down.”

“You’re the one sneaking up on people in the middle of the night, popping out of your condo like a fucking Whack-a Mole!”

Just then, the door down the hall opens and our massive neighbor, the one with the dog that shits everywhere, steps out into the hallway. “Yo,” he says, in a voice so deep it sounds cavernous, like the great and powerful Oz. “Can the two of you please have a little respect? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Gretchen’s eyes bug out, as if there’s something she wants to say. I glare at her, trying to silently warn her that perhaps now is not the time for her to air whatever grievances she might have about this particular giant (who stands at least 6’5”) when I am the only one around to protect her from being murdered here in the hallway. “Yeah, man. Got you. Sorry,” I say, and he shuts his door with a grunt.

I walk toward Gretchen. It’s about a dozen steps. “Iknewit was you,” I repeat, more quietlythis time.

“What are you doing working as astripper?” she replies, louder than I’d like. I’m not interested in engaging with the gargantuan down the hall again.

“Shh,” I whisper. “We should have this conversation inside.”

“Inside where?” she asks, as if I’ve just suggested we hop in a rocket ship and fly to the moon together.

“Your house? My house? I don’t care,” I say.

“Notmyhouse,” she declares.

“Fine – my house. Just not here,” I murmur.

She sighs. It’s not exactly a sound of acquiescence. More like – I’m not sure – relief, maybe? She gives me a pretty hard side eye, like she’s contemplating whether I might be a murderer.

“You were fine barging into my house weeks ago,” I remind her.

“Ithoughtyou were Luis.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to go in there,” I whisper, pointing into my condo. “If you decide you’d like to discuss this like mature adults, you know where to find me. But I am not going to stay out here and get clubbed to death bythatneanderthal.” I jut my chin out towards the C apartment.

Gretchen sighs dramatically. “Fine. Let me put this down. Hang on.” She fumbles to put the key in the lock, turns it, drops her bag and follows me back to my condo, keys in hand. She steps inside, closing the door behind her quietly. “Well?” she says, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Go ahead.”

I narrow my gaze at her. “Summer, huh?”

“I’m sorry,Zorro,” shereplies, smirking.

“Why the name change?” I wonder aloud. “Is it just so people don’t know that it’s you?”

“I wish,” she says. “Apparently my name is not acceptable.”

“According to who?”

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