Page 3 of The New Couple in 5B

He’s dead, I want to correct him. But I don’t. Once you’ve seen the look of death, you recognize it right away. It’s a kind of vacancy, a light lost, something fled. Those green eyes are empty, beyond sight. A stylish young woman in a long black coat and high heels runs up to the twisted form and drops to her knees while she’s talking on the phone.

She puts a tender hand to his throat, checking expertly for a pulse. Then, she starts to scream. Her screaming, so helpless, so despairing—does she know him?Help. Help. Somebody help him.Or does she, too, recognize that look? Does it connect her as it does me to every loss she’s ever known?

I’m still pressing against the glass, transfixed.

A crowd gathers, blocking the man from sight. In minutes, an ambulance arrives. There’s a frenzy of angry honking horns, people frustrated that their trips have been delayed by yet another accident. Max moves over to me, puts a strong arm around my shoulders.

“Are you okay? Rosie, say something.”

I realize then that I’m weeping. Fat tears pouring down my cheeks. Turning away from the scene on the street, and into Max’s arms, I let him hold me a moment. I take comfort in his familiar scent, the feel of him.

“I’m okay,” I say, pulling away finally.

“You sure?” he says, face a mask of concern. “That was—awful.”

We sit back down in stunned silence. Time seems to warp. Finally, the man is shuttled away in an ambulance, and the crowd disperses. We’re still at our lunch table, helpless to do or change anything. How long did it all take? Someone from the restaurant steps outside, dumps a bucket of soapy water over the blood that has pooled there. Then he uses a squeegee to wash the blood from the window right next to me but instead just smears it in a hideous, wide, red swath.

I get up quickly, almost knocking over my chair. The rest of the diners have gone back to their meals. The show is over; everyone returns quickly to their lives. As it should be, maybe. But I am shaken to my core. So much blood. I feel sick.

“I have to get out of here. I’m sorry.”

Max rises, too. He tells the hostess he’ll come back for the bill, then shuttles me outside and hails a cab. The traffic is flowing again, and one pulls up right away.

“You’re so pale,” Max says again, opening the door. He presses a hand on my shoulder. “Let me pay the bill and run you home?”

“No, no,” I protest, embarrassed to be so rattled. “It’s fine.”

I just can’t stop shaking.

“Call me when you get in,” he says. “Let me know you got home safe.”

Then I’m alone in the back of the cab, the driver just a set of eyes in the rearview mirror, city noise muffled, Max’s worried form growing small behind me. My pulse is racing and my mind spinning.

What just happened? Whatwasthat?

An accident. One of hundreds that happen in this city every single day. I just happen to have been unlucky enough to witness it.

My father would surely declare it an omen of dark things to come. But he and I don’t share the same belief system. I haven’t spoken to him in years; amazing that I still hear his voice so clearly.

The cab races through traffic, dodging, weaving, the cabbie leaning on his horn. I dig through my tote and find the little white, blue and purple box, pull it out so that I can put my eyes on it. A pregnancy test.

In the face of death and loss, what do we need most?

Hope.

Life.

I can’t get home fast enough.

two

I let myself in through the heavy grated metal street door, check the mail, which contains only bills and useless fliers. Then I walk up the five stories to our apartment. I’m still a bit shaky, but the bike messenger accident is already fading some.

I guess that makes me a real New Yorker, now indifferent to the misery of others. New York City, as much as I love it, is an assault, a daily punch in the face. You do have to shut down a bit to survive its noise, odors, catcalls, lurking predators, its violence. I find myself revising the event. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was just stunned, not dead. He’ll be injured, of course, but ultimately live to messenger another day. Right? Right.

By the time I’ve reached the fifth floor, I almost believe it. I unlock our apartment door and push inside. I am hoping Chad will be home already, but he’s not.

The apartment is sun-washed and tidy, and I feel some of my tension drain as I kick off my heels and pad across the wood floor. Despite my desperate revision of the event, I’m still flashing on the sight of the man hitting the windshield, hearing that crunch of metal, seeing that spray of blood. Underneath that, there’s a current of deep disappointment that the meeting didn’t go the way I had hoped.

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