Page 8 of All Twerk, No Play

Mom introduced me as her ‘Junior VP of Sales,' warning her staff and clients not to be fooled by my pigtails, proudly revealing my shrewd bedtime negotiation skills. She even showed me her ritual for the first time she visited a property: Before the client arrived, she would place her palm on the wall, close her eyes, and take a deep breath.

Buildings have souls, she told me in a reverent whisper.To find the right tenants, we need to know where they’ve been and who they need.

After that January meeting with Alexander, that truth hit me. Flipping through his spiral-bound business plan, I considered my promise to stay for one year—though I didn’t believe he’d last a month before craving the bustle of a city. Worst case scenario: If I lived here six months before renting it, I would qualify for the resident tax break.

That’s when I looked through the window of the towncar bound for Manhattan and saw the terra cotta and brick facade of The Gramercy, a Romanesque condo building with window arches and lovingly restored polygonal domes with a sign out fron : Condo for sale.

“Stop the car,” I instructed the driver, feeling a pull in my gut I couldn’t ignore. I walked through the arched entryway into a foyer with wainscoting and decorative woodwork, tilting my head to inspect the five-story atrium.

I pressed my palm into the foyer’s wall and felt a resilient buzz, as if the years had worn it down but never conquered it.

The superintendent’s office door displayed a post-it that he was out for a run. I took a flyer from the wall display with a pleased hum at the availability of a fifth-floor unit—the top floor.

***

Ithadbeenfourdays since I’d moved into my new condo. After work, I walked into the master bedroom, appreciating the his-and-hers closets … or in my case, hers-and-her-shoes. I slipped off my lucky Jimmy Choo pumps—black patent leather with a square-cut vamp, the only shoes I packed in my suitcase. I placed them lovingly on the shelf in the nearly empty closet, impatient for the rest of my collection en route from San Francisco.

I reached under my armpit to unzip my Caroline Herrera sheath dress—I strategically only bought dresses without back zippers—and hung it up with care, hearing my grandfather’s wife Beverly’s voice in my mind: “Dressing well isn’t vanity, it’s strategy, Vickie. The world rewards those who look like they belong at the top.”

Releasing my bra, I moaned in relief and slipped into my spa robe, running my hand over the VSB monogram. I visualized the bedroom set I’d ordered, impatient for its arrival. When I called customer service today to ask for the manager, he promised delivery by Saturday.

Cracking open the bathroom door, muffled laughter echoed through the common walls from the neighbor's place. I said cheerfully, “Honey, I’m home,”

Jurisprudence's golden eyes blinked awake, looking around the bathroom I'd set up as her designated safe haven. I checked her food dispenser and refilled her water dish before lowering myself to the tile floor. She yawned, her expression asking why I was waking her, and I lifted her brush in a promise. She lazily stretched before leaning into my touch, her gray fur swirling in a small tornado above her.

She rubbed her cheek against the brush, just like she had the day we adopted her eight years ago. Alexander thought I was insane for requesting a kitten as a gift for passing the bar, given that our first-year schedules would be crazy. I’d never had a pet before, and after he moved in, we could split the responsibility.

He’d suggested the short-haired varieties, stating the grooming schedule for a long-haired Persian breed was too high-maintenance—as if it wasn't worth the time for her to look her best. But as soon as I’d seen her squishy face, I’d known she was the one. He’d been annoyed that she favored me, but he hadn’t found the specialty cat food that didn’t upset her stomach or discovered her preferred pace for chin scratches.

After finishing her brushing, I rubbed a washcloth on her cheeks to gather her scent. On the way to the kitchen, I rubbed every doorframe so that when she was ready to emerge, she would feel safe.

In the kitchen, I reheated the chef-made pre-cooked dinner … and remembered the pastry Alexander gave me, which I’d packed up after he left early again. Who stopped working at 8pm?

“You know I can’t eat that,” I told him that morning in the bungalow, angry that his food looked amazing when all I had for breakfast was black coffee and half a grapefruit.

“Grace is testing gluten-free recipes,” Alexander said, plating the mouthwatering apple turnover. I swallowed, emotion clogging my throat. I’d assumed that it was store-bought, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of raving over his girlfriend’s cooking. It probably tasted terrible since most gluten-free options are either crumbly or soggy.

I ignored it then on principle … but now I pulled the Tupperware out of my work bag and took a few nibbles—

Holy shit. No kidding Alexander moved to this podunk city for her. I took another greedy, heavenly bite. I could eat this every day.

It would go straight to my thighs.

I threw the rest away, eating my bland salmon and quinoa over the sink, looking into the living room, but the woodworking around the fireplace was concealed behind stacks of boxes.

Before my flight, I emailed the building superintendent a request to sign and carry all my deliveries upstairs. He seemed competent but dopey, his informal emails littered with emoji like a thick-thumbed Boomer on his first smartphone.

I hadn't met him, though he had saved my ass.

Upon arrival at my new condo on Sunday evening—after Jurisprudence yowled for the entire nine-hour flight, and Alexander showed up 38 minutes late in Grace’s dilapidated truck, bringing her along to bore me with small talk—I didn’t see the most important delivery: the brand new king-sized bed.

Instead, I found a fresh fruit bouquet, a lumpy air mattress, and a handwritten note from the superintendent: The furniture company contacted him about a delivery delay, but he didn’t want me to be bedless. That level of service was appreciated … even if the air mattress had been designed by Satan himself to deflate overnight.

As I rinsed my dish, Jurisprudence howled from the bathroom—not ready to explore, but not wanting to be alone. I hear you, lady.

Chewing a strawberry from the fruit bouquet, I returned to her bathroom and ran the hottest shower possible, wanting to burn the day off my skin. While it heated, I dug out my Bluetooth speaker to block out the neighbors’ noise. Alexander teased that my music ran the gamut of “angry lesbian bitch rock” to “sad mopey bitch pop.”

Angry mopey bitch is right.

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