Page 42 of The New Couple in 5B

“Of course you do, honey.”

We are surrounded by squat concrete and brick buildings, and the street is eerily quiet, lined with cars. A guy with a tattooed head and wearing a blue mechanic jumpsuit walks by talking on the phone, oblivious to us. But other than him, the sidewalks are empty, warehouses as far as you can see to the water’s edge. A piece of newspaper dances up the street carried by the wind. In the gutter a pigeon coos.

“I don’t think we’re in Manhattan anymore, Toto,” says Max. And he’s right; the vibe is completely different up here. Industrial. A strange air of desertion. The wind howls down the street, and I pull my coat tight around me. I can feel the first hint of winter in the air.

We walk until we find the door with the rusty metal numbers nailed above it. There’s a simple plaque: Dana Lowan Studios. I took my husband’s name without hesitating, eager to leave any piece of my old self, my old life, behind. But I guess Dana kept her maiden name—or was there a divorce?

I press the bell and hear it ringing loud and long like a buzzer off in the distance.

We wait, Max tapping on his phone.

I ring again, check the time. It’s exactly three.

“Call her,” suggests Max.

My call rings and rings, finally goes to voice mail.Please leave a message for Dana Lowan.

“No answer.”

When I reach for the heavy metal door, expecting to find it locked, it pushes open with a horror movie squeak to reveal a dimly lit, long concrete hallway.

Is that music, playing from somewhere inside the space?

“Should we go in?” I ask Max, only just now realizing that this was not a good idea. I’m hoping he’s going to chicken out and drag me off, so that I don’t have to chicken out and draghimoff.

But he’s got that look, that curious researcher look that I know too well.

He leans into the long, dark hallway. “Hello?” His voice bounces on the concrete.

This is not smart, I think. But we’re inching forward.

A tinny strain of music carries from deep inside the building. We exchange a look, both hearing it. He shrugs as if to say:We came this far.When he walks inside, I follow.

thirteen

Once we pass through the dark hallway, we enter a wide-open, bright white space. In sharp contrast to the gritty, industrial neighborhood, the interior could be on any street in SoHo with matte white walls and artful lighting, hardwood floors.

“Wow,” says Max.

Our footfalls echo in the cavernous space.

It’s a gallery of presumably Dana’s photography—a stunning collection of high-contrast nudes. Bodies of all shapes, sizes, ages—her perspective unflinching. In the huge images, an old woman stands in front of a full-length mirror, boldly baring her sagging breasts, her wrinkled skin, her toothless smile. A young man stands on prosthetic legs, stance akimbo, smile wide. A mother feeds a baby from her breast. Another woman has scars where her breasts would be; she poses in lingerie upon a chaise, her stare defiant.

I am immediately drawn into the faces, the eyes, the different bodies and skin tones. It’s mesmerizing. I see pain, joy, love, anger, daring. There’s trembling beauty in the curve of a neck, in the arch of a back. Even what might be considered ugly becomes strangely alluring here in the loving acceptance of the photographer’s eye.

“These are hypnotic,” says Max, similarly having forgotten our errand and in full art-lover mode.

It’s only when I get to the final image on the far wall that I stop.

It’s a form I know as well as I know my own. A man, his body crafted as if by the gods—musculature in perfect symmetry, abs cut, biceps toned. Shadows gather in the dip of his collarbone. His skin glows. He sits on a wide sill, gazing out a window, half his face washed in too much light, the rest swallowed by darkness. One hand rests on a toned thigh; he dips his forehead into the other hand as if in despair. No wedding ring, I notice. He looks younger, boyish. This was before I met him, maybe. I hope. I think my husband would have told me if he had recently posed nude for his cousin.

“Is that—Chad?” asks Max coming up behind me.

I swallow against the thickness in my throat, give a mute nod.

“Okay,” he says. “Wow.”

We both stand staring at the nude picture of my husband. Talk about awkward.

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