Chapter Seven
Molly
This evening, after I lock up the center, I walk home on the other side of the street to avoid the man who assaulted me with the plastic knife yesterday. It’s funny, but that traumatic experience is the farthest thing from my mind. Salvatore has occupied my thoughts, and there’s no getting rid of him, especially not with our impending “date.” The quotations around that word are important. It’s fake. An act. But the mind is a tricky thing. It can delude ourselves into believing not what we know or see, but what we want to believe. I want to believe I have a chance with Sal, that I’m the kind of woman who would catch his gaze. But if I allow myself to entertain this, I’m setting myself up for heartbreak.
Unrequited love. It’s a beautiful phrase, romantic even, and has inspired so many moving songs and poetry. But, I know from first hand experience, it’s a three-horned beast, a treacherous, self-esteem killing force of nature. I encountered this beast a couple of times in college, and I want nothing to do with it. With Sal, I can feel myself sliding down that slope. I have to stop it in its tracks.
As I get closer to the corner where the group of homeless people congregate, I force myself to become more aware of my surroundings. I can see them from where I stand, diligently pushing shopping carts and carrying plastic bags filled to the brim with recyclables. I spot the man with the toy knife. He still has that far off, vacant look in his eyes, but he seems calm. He even says something that makes the others laugh.
My heart breaks for him. Even though he scared the pants off of me, he didn’t know what he was doing. That’s why I didn’t report the incident to the police, and besides, is there a charge for assault with a nonfatal toy? I linger there for a few moments, watching him. I wish he would come to the center. I wish he would let me help him heal.
But my wishes don’t account for much. I learned that with Stephen, my brother. When I was a kid, I thought that my desire for my older brother to get better would be enough motivation for him to do just that. But it never was. Stephen had bi-polar disorder. I didn’t know it at the time, and neither did he. When I studied the disorder in college, and learned about the manic highs alternating with debilitating depression, it rang all too familiar. Stephen was receptive to my pleas when he was in a depressive mood, but would soon be carried away with the mania, where he’d steal cars, try to rob people, all to get money for drugs.
When I got older, and experienced romantic rejection from college classmates, mentally, I reverted back to that scared twelve year old, who’s love wasn’t enough to help the person who meant the most to her.
I’ve stood here for too long. The man has detected my presence. He glances across the street, looking right at me. My pulse quickens. But he doesn’t appear to recognize my face.
*
I walk quickly down the hall to my apartment, all too aware of Sal’s close presence. Once inside, my attention is drawn to my laptop. I open it, and log on to my email. The wifi is working perfectly. Sal certainly did move fast. I navigate to a search browser. My fingers are poised over the keyboard, itching to type Sal’s name. But I can’t shake the feeling that if I do, he’ll know.
I close the laptop abruptly. I’m being so absurd. There’s no evidence that Sal’s been watching me, but I can’t deny this unquantifiable feeling that he is, or that there’s something more to what he wants from me. I could call it intuition, but I never much trusted mine.
It’s scary, actually. Irrational paranoia is a common symptom in several different mental disorders. To prove my own sanity, I decide to take a shower, disregarding my suspicion that Sal can see that too. In my bathroom, I turn on the shower, then undress while the water gets warm and the room gets steamy. The sound of water tapping the body of the tub relaxes me, and I start to calm down. My delusions cease to be so strong. I have to laugh at myself. Sal’s not watching me. Why would he? I’m not that interesting to him.
But why does he want me to pose as his girlfriend? This town is full of actresses and models that Sal could’ve hired for the role. Maybe he feels bad for me, and is genuinely trying to help.
Maybe he’s your landlord, and he’s got you over a barrel.
It was supposed to be snarky thought, but it produces a visual that makes me shudder.
Determined to quell my paranoia, I undress with abandon, my eyes focused on the corner of the ceiling, where I imagine a camera would be. I blow kisses and shake my hips, hoping Sal likes what he sees.
After my shower, I feel much better, and am much kinder to myself. I’ve been through a lot in the past few days. There was the stress with the funding cuts, and what I thought at the time was a near death experience yesterday. And throw a man like Sal into the situation, and you’ve got a spark meeting gunpowder.
I look into the mirror, resolving to pamper myself tonight. I’ll put on a soft robe, turn on some good music, and pour a little wine. That combination always works wonders for me, lifting my spirits when I’ve allowed self-doubt to drag me down.
There’s a knock on the door. All the work I did to pump myself up immediately goes down the drain. My face, reflected in the mirror, is suddenly pale. It’s him. I know it.
With a towel wrapped tightly around my damp and naked body, I dash out of the bathroom and yell, “Just a sec,” at the door.
In my bedroom, I throw open my closet, feeling flustered. For some reason, I don’t want to keep him waiting too long. I throw on a pair of jeans, and an old “Save the Children” T-shirt. When I open the door to Sal, a cold breeze rushes into my apartment. Sal studies my appearance, making me consciously aware of my wet hair, and the fact that I forgot to put on a bra. His smile makes every muscle in my body tense.
“All clean, are we?” he asks in a smooth tone.
My tongue stumbles as I try to respond. I end up saying something nonsensical under my breath. What is it with him? Every conversation with him is a challenge. He always knocks me off guard. And his good looks don’t help. They’re a tantalizing distraction. I’m not used to people like him where I’m from. In my small town, people trip over themselves to be polite and accommodating. Not Sal. I get the feeling he enjoys pushing my buttons. Right now, he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me.
I finally gather myself, and invite him inside. He strides in like he owns the place, which he does.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I offer, remembering my manners.
“Wine. Red. Heavy. Something with legs.”
I didn’t expect him to take me up on my offer. No one ever does. I go into the kitchen, where all I have is the five buck chuck from the grocery. I grab a wine glass. This will have to do.
Sal’s sitting at the dining table when I return. He eyes the glass and wine bottle in my hand.
“Where’s your glass?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say, spinning on my heels towards the kitchen. I return, awkwardly carrying the wine bottle and two glasses.
Sal watches patiently as I uncork the bottle and pour two glasses. To my relief, I manage to keep my hand steady, and don’t spill any. Sal takes one sip of his wine, then pushes it away, never to touch it again.
“Dinner is this Saturday,” Sal says, getting down to business. “We need to get our story straight. How did we meet?”
I scrunch my forehead. “Why not the truth? I’m your tenant.”
“No,” he says, shutting the idea down thoroughly with just one word. “And don’t mention you live here.”
I take a sip of wine, listening to alarm bells going off in my head. Just how deep is this deception going to be?
“How about this,” Sal says. “We met six months ago. On the street. You fell. Snapped your high heel. I got you a cab, and your number. The rest is history.”
Sounds like every romantic comedy I’ve ever seen, I think. I drink more wine, plying myself with liquid courage, and remind myself that this is just business.
“Where’s dinner?” I ask.
“Firenze. Heard of it?”
I almost choke on my cheap wine. Heard of it? Firenze is one of the nicest, most established restaurants in the city. The head chef, Antonio Vega, was on a cooking competition show a few years ago. I remember that season. Chef Vega would painstakingly roll out pasta by hand for every competition, no matter the time constraints. It was a risk that didn’t always pay off. Chef Vega didn’t win, but I admired the dedication to his craft. And I’m not the only one. It’s almost impossible to get a reservation at his restaurant.
“You have heard of it,” Sal says with a dark smile, making me wonder if he can read my thoughts. “What are you going to wear?”
Bam. I’m thrown off guard again. It’s not an entirely inappropriate question. But coming from Sal, it seems like one. Business, I remind myself. Keep your personal feelings out of it. I fiddle with the edge of a placemat.
“I haven’t thought about it.”
Sal smiles to himself again. He does that when he makes me nervous. It hits me. He’s playing with me. That’s why he makes me so paranoid. It further confirms that I need to insulate my feelings from him.
He glances down the hall. “May I?”
I’m not sure what he’s asking at first. Is he inviting himself to my bedroom? Why?
He takes my silence as permission. Before I know it, he’s standing, and walking down the hallway. I stumble after him.
Sal goes directly to my closet and throws it open. He may own the place, but he doesn’t have the right to invade my privacy like this. Before I can say anything, he’s already thumbed through my sensible department store clothes. With a shake of his head, he dismisses the entire closet.
“You need something new,” he says.
I raise my chin in the air, standing my ground. “I can’t afford that.”
Sal waves his hand, dismissing this. “I’ll pick something up for you. I’ll just need your measurements.”
He may as well have smacked me in the face. Buying me clothes? My measurements? And he acts like none of this is up for debate. But I’m afraid to argue. I am getting a discount on my rent out of the bargain, and I can’t afford to lose that.
Sal looks at me impatiently. “Do you have a tape measure?”
“Um. There’s one around here somewhere.” I rifle through the dresser drawers, feeling Sal’s chilling stare on me the entire time. I finally find what I’m looking for coiled in the back of my underwear drawer.
One night, I think, untangling it from a plain pair of white panties. One month. Only business.
“Hips, waist, bust,” Sal says, his eyes going to each body part as he lists them.
I unravel the tape measure and wrap it around my hips. I try to be precise but I’m a little dizzy from the wine.
“Forty-two,” I say, squinting at the small numbers. “Should I write this down?”
Sal taps his forehead. “I’ll remember.”
I move on to my waist. Sal makes no effort to make this any less uncomfortable. His eyes are fixed on me, watching with intent interest.
“Thirty-one,” I announce.
I can’t stop the color rising in my cheeks as I measure my bust. My entire body is hot. I can hear blood rushing in my ears. I can barely look at Sal, but I feel him, staring.
“Forty-one,” I blurt out, then quickly drop the tape measure from my body.
“Forty-two, thirty-one, forty-one,” Sal recites. “Got it.”
He turns and walks out of my bedroom without saying anything, all the way to the front door.
“Thanks for the wine,” he says, lingering in the doorway. “I’ll be in touch.”