Page 21 of The Tenant
Now instead of spending these last few minutes eating a semi-nutritious breakfast, I’ll be spending the time vacuuming up the remnants of Frosted Flakes. But I’m not going to leave crumbs all over the floor. That would drive me out of my mind.
Goldy watches me running the vacuum over the floor. She opens her mouth, and a little bubble of air rises to the surface of the bowl.
“How come you didn’t warn me she ate all my cereal?” I ask the fish.
Goldy doesn’t have an answer.
“Blake? What’s going on down there?”
It’s Krista—I woke her up with the vacuum. I feel a stab of guilt. She doesn’t have work today, so it was her chance to sleep in. But now she’s coming down the stairs, wearing my old oversize Green Day T-shirt that she sleeps in.
“Sorry,” I say. “I had a little accident.”
That’s a nicer way to say that I freaked out and threw the cereal box on the floor and then had to clean it up.
Krista yawns, stretching her arms high above her head. “Did you have breakfast yet?”
“Whitney ate all my cereal,” I grumble. “She also used up my soap and shampoo.”
Krista’s eyebrows shoot up. “She just took all your stuff without asking?”
“Well, no,” I admit. “I told her she could use it. But I didn’t say she could useallof it.”
“Okay, so basically, you told her she could use your stuff, and now you’re mad that she did it?”
I make a face at her. “I just wanted a bowl of cereal, Krista.”
“So have some of mine. It’s way healthier than Frosted Flakes.”
“Yours tastes like shredded cardboard.”
“Gee, sorry.” She laughs and pushes past me into the kitchen, grabbing that disgusting health crap cereal she always eats with a cup of low-fat yogurt. “Anyway, if you’re going to have a fit over Whitney using your stuff, you should say something to her instead of getting all pissy.”
She’s right. Whitney’s already gone to work, but the next time I see her, I need to let her know that I’m not okay with sharing my stuff. I’m sure she’ll understand.
I no longer have time for a real breakfast, but there are some apples in the fruit bowl that haven’t turned completely brown yet. I grab one of them, noting a few more fruit flies than usual hovering over the bowl. It might be a good idea to get rid of the rest of the apples before the fruit flies multiply, which they have a tendency to do. I’ve been cleaning the kitchen every day, hoping to keep it insect-free, but fruit is irresistible to those little bugs.
Krista puts down her cereal box to smile at me. “Good luck today,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say as I run a hand through my still slightly damp hair. “Do I look okay?”
“Almost…” She cocks her head, assessing my appearance carefully. She reaches out and straightens my navy-blue tie, cinching the knot a bit tighter. “There. Now you look devastatingly handsome.” She stands on the toes of her bare feet, lifting her pink lips so I can kiss her, and I wrap my arms around her. “Level nine,” she whispers in my ear, and I tighten my embrace. It’s enough to make me sorry I have to leave, but it’s also a relief to be a productive member of society again. When we finally separate, Krista squeezes my arm. “Knock ’em dead, Blake.”
“I will.”
It’s a temp job, but I’ll make the most of it. In another couple of years, I’ll be running the place.
I head out the front door, having already planned a route to work involving the subway station three blocks away. It’ll be a thirty-minute ride to Battery Park City and another five minutes from the train station. So I should be at work in about forty-five minutes as long as there are no delays. Then Mr. Zimmerly, clad in his trademark slippers, comes out of his brownstone as if he’s been waiting for me. Unlike in the suburbs, there’s zero breathing room between our houses; his brownstone and mine are practically kissing.
“Porter!” he calls out as he makes his way down the steps of his house.
Christ, what now? “I’m on my way to work, Mr. Zimmerly.”
Zimmerly looks me up and down in my work clothes, his lips curling as he rubs the whiskers on his chin. “You finally got yourself a job, huh?”
Before I got fired, there wasn’t one day in the last fifteen years when I hadn’t worked, and that includes workingtwo jobsduring college. But I don’t feel like getting into it with him. “Yes” is all I say. “So I have to get going and—”
“You need to do something about your steps,” Mr. Zimmerly tells me.
