Page 38 of There Are No Saints

I’m cumming for the second time today, a hot flood that pours over the back of my hand, dripping down onto the floorboards.

I can’t tear my eyes from the telescope.

I can’t stop looking at her for a single second.

* * *

10

Mara

Monday morning Joanna catches me at breakfast.

“Mara,” she says, “about your stuff . . .”

“I know,” I wince. “I’ve been looking everywhere for space.”

“You gotta get it out. I need room for my own shit.”

“I know. This week, I promise.”

That’s a promise I have no way of keeping. I’ve really been looking every day, but I’m flat fucking broke. Even if I can find an affordable studio, I don’t have money for first month’s rent, let alone a deposit.

I borrow Erin’s laptop, planning to scan the artists’ message boards yet again. Instead, I see I’ve got a new email from the Onyx Group, whatever that is.

I open it up, expecting spam.

The sentences that meet my eye are so serendipitous that I read them four times over, stunned and unbelieving.

Dear Ms. Eldritch,

We received your application for studio space. We’re pleased to inform you our junior studio in the Alta Plaza building on Clay Street is currently available.

The junior studio is offered to upcoming artists at a discounted rate of $200/month, payment due at the end of the month.

I have an appointment available at 2:00 this afternoon if you’d like to view the space.

Regards,

Sonia Bridger

For a second I wonder if one of my roommates would be cruel enough to prank me.

But I doubt any of them can spell this well.

Hands shaking, I type back as quickly as possible,

That would be incredible, thank you so much. I will be there at 2:00.

I want to run over there right this second, before they give it away to somebody else.

Two hundred bucks a month is unheard of. I don’t remember applying for this place specifically, but I put my name down everywhere I could find. This feels like manna from heaven. I really can’t believe it. I’m keyed up, terrified that something will happen to fuck this up.

I can barely concentrate while I race my way through the brunch shift. Arthur can tell I’m excited, or maybe just useless, so he lets me off early to run home and change.

I dress in my most professional-looking outfit, a linen peasant blouse and almost-clean jeans, and then I hurry over to Clay Street.

Ms. Bridger is already waiting for me. She’s tall and elegant, with an iron-gray bob and a long, aristocratic nose.

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