Текст книги "New Amsterdam: Tess"
Автор книги: Ashley Pullo
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
“Bees don’t live in the barn. And I never expected you to get married on the farm – that’s not your style. But I really thought I would be next to you, holding your bouquet as you exchanged vows.” Thessaly leans in to ask, “And what about your family?”
Mary Alice’s eyes flutter as she blinks rapidly. “Oh, they don’t know yet. You’re the first!”
An attractive waiter approaches the table carrying a tray of copper mugs, a bowl of cut limes, and a platter of tomato and mozzarella drizzled with balsamic dressing. After placing the items on the table, the waiter looks over Thessaly with a cocky smirk. Engaging in the flirtation, Thessaly arches an eyebrow and smiles – unable to ignore a man with exposed, muscular forearms and a fitted dress shirt.
Thessaly raises her mug to make a toast as the waiter says, “I’ll be back to take your order.” Walking away, Thessaly casually checks out the waiter’s backside, tipping her mug in his direction with a huge grin.
“Busted,” whispers Mary Alice.
“So?” Thessaly blushes. “To Bennett and Mary Alice! Husband and wife, lovers for life.”
The trio tap their mugs together and gulp the gingery cocktail. Although this is a joyous occasion, Thessaly places her drink on the table and stares out toward the vast mountain range deep in thought. The two friends have been planning each other’s weddings since they were twelve, and they even kept a scrapbook with magazine cutouts and homemade invitations.
Mary Alice was going to marry George Clooney on Waikiki Beach – pastel, vintage party dresses for the women, and linen suits for the men. Cocktails in Tiki glasses, 8mm filmography, and a beach luau serving roasted pig would’ve completed her perfect day. Thessaly, on the other hand, was going to marry Joshua Jackson on the family’s farm at dusk. Lanterns and candles would’ve illuminated an all-white, rustic picnic theme. But since both of their hypothetical husbands are currently taken, and Mary Alice hasn’t eaten meat in ten years, the two were forced to find alternative love stories.
“Tess, Mary Alice tells me you have a great little shop in the Seaport.” Bennett places a tomato stack on his wife’s plate, and then on his own.
“Sugar, we don’t have time for small-talk. Let me handle this,” Mary Alice interrupts. “Tess, I want to hear about all the men.” She waggles her eyebrows as her husband shakes his head. Gladly excusing himself from the intimate conversation, Bennett lowers his head and pretends to check his phone.
Thessaly blushes, and then smiles. “Inside or outside the bedroom?”
The current dating situation is a touchy topic with Thessaly, but she’s good at deflecting the awkward questioning. Three years ago, Thessaly moved to New York City with her then-boyfriend, Mason Andrews. They met as freshman while attending Duke University, the blond cheerleader and the star lacrosse player, destined to be the “it” couple at all the fraternity parties. As Mason and Thessaly matured, so did their love affair – marriage was definitely in their future. But like so many relationships, changes can force a couple to reevaluate their priorities. Mason threw himself into work, landing a job as an investment banker with a prestigious Downtown firm. Thessaly worked as a buyer for a chain of markets, learning the ropes and building contacts, but she rarely saw Mason. Within their first year living in Manhattan, they decided it was best to explore life outside their college romance, and maybe they would end up wanting different things. Mason bought an apartment in TriBeCa, and Thessaly rented a studio Downtown – hoping that it would be a temporary home until Mason took her back. And even though their split was amicable and they’ve remained friends with an occasional shag, Thessaly pretends to be a serial dater in order to cover the fact that she followed a boy to New York City.
“I love powerful men in suits, but there’s also a new breed of masculinity that I find extremely sexy. Like casual arrogance blended with tech geek, and then sprinkled with a dash of CrossFit.” Thessaly places a tomato stack on her plate and sprinkles it with pepper.
Pretending to fan herself, Mary Alice leans into Thessaly and whispers, “Yum. And?”
“My Thursday friend is like a Viking god with nerdy glasses. He’s sexy and smart, and incredibly talented.” Thessaly measures a sizable distance between her hands to represent the girth of his talent. “He demands that I have at least three orgasms before he leaves,” she whispers.
“God bless Thursday.” Mary Alice raises her mug to add, “And may you have a summer of sore weekends.”
Unless Thessaly is referring to the middle-aged UPS guy that makes bee jokes during his weekly delivery at The Hive, then her Thursday friend is a lie.
Sneaking up to her former bedroom like a guilty teenager, Thessaly closes the door behind her and kicks off her shoes. Most parents take the opportunity to remodel a grown child’s bedroom after they move out – mini gym, sewing room, office – but Rosalyn and Bruce Sinclair kept the kid’s bedrooms exactly the same.
She lifts her rolling suitcase onto the bed and unzips the tasseled zipper. Fishing out a black maxi dress and gold sandals, she glances at the time on her purple, furry alarm clock, and then makes her way to her desk. Running her hand over the acrylic desk pad plastered with stickers, and laughing at a framed photo of her and Mary Alice in the fifth grade, she slides open the top drawer and removes an upholstered box. Intended for jewelry, Thessaly bought the box to store all her favorite memories – like a photo of her grandfather during the Korean War, a yo-yo she won at summer camp, a few concert ticket stubs, and her sorority pledge pin.
Thumbing through a stack of photos with Mason, she finds a folded, glossy page of a magazine given to her on the day she left Asheville. It was Mason’s unspoken promise that he would in fact marry her one day if she boarded the plane to New York. Unfolding the paper and tracing the cushion-cut diamond of a Tacori wedding ring, she laughs. It’s smaller than she remembers, but dreams are always bigger when they don’t come true.
“Tess, honey.” Rosalyn knocks quietly on Thessaly’s bedroom door and then slowly opens it. “Are you decent?”
Quickly shoving everything back into the box and returning it to the drawer, she replies, “Come in, Mama.”
Entering the bedroom and gliding toward Thessaly’s bed, Rosalyn peeks inside her suitcase. “You wear so much black, Tess.”
Knowing that her mother is the queen of polite digs, she flatly responds. “I’m still mourning the end of Friends.”
“Your friends passed?” Rosalyn asks.
Arching an eyebrow, she replies, “Friends, Mama – the TV show.”
“Oh, yes. Anyway, I started the trademark application earlier – are you sure you have time for another line?” Rosalyn sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her long legs.
“It will sell itself, trust me.”
“I do trust you.” Sighing and placing her hands in her lap, Rosalyn adds, “Taking on too many responsibilities, or devoting all your time to a career, can make a man feel inadequate.”
“No offense, but your philosophy on the role of modern women is a little dated.”
“Maybe, but you’ll want to get married eventually.” Rosalyn slides her hand over her glossy, blond bob and adds, “I’m simply explaining why a man, particularly Mason, might have a hard time seeing you as marriage material.”
Not wanting to start a fight, Thessaly pats her mother’s shoulder and changes the subject. “Did you schedule your surgery?”
Enjoying the attention, she patters, “Oh, Tess, please. Do not coddle me – I’m a grown woman.”
“When is it? I’d like to be there.”
Standing slowly from the bed and smoothing the crease in her poplin shirt, Rosalyn replies, “September twenty-second. Which will give me plenty of time to recover before the holidays.” Picking up a family photo of the Sinclair crew vacationing at Disney World, Rosalyn chuckles. Her thin shoulders bounce and her lip quivers, causing Thessaly to roar in laughter.
“Mama, what’s so funny?” she asks, taking the photo from her mother and returning it to the side table.
“That was the trip when Kip screamed and kicked his way through It’s a Small World.”
“That’s right! He had to be the only twelve-year old afraid of those wooden dolls.”
Rosalyn places an arm around her daughter and smiles. “We should get dressed for dinner,” she suggests.
Hugging her mother’s small waist, Thessaly smiles devilishly. “Are you up for pulling a prank?”
“Always.”
“I want to believe he loves me more than the idea of loving me. And maybe one day that will finally happen. Even though we broke up, we still have a great relationship on social media.”
Chapter Two
It’s hot and humid and the summer’s only getting started! But we’ve got you covered – concert tickets at Jones Beach in ninety minutes. But now, more of the coolest songs of the summer on ninety-five-five PLJ. T-swift, Nick Jonas, and our friends, Walk the Moon . . . just shut up and dance, New York!
The cab driver lowers his window, punches his arm into the thick air, and shakes his fist. “Tu es mootafoocker!” His Haitian accent pours through his delivery as he repeats the crass sentiment. “Mootafoocker!” Mumbling under his breath, the cabbie changes the radio station to an AM business report while edging closer to the offensive Mercedes that cut him off.
“Hey, Meg – I’m sitting in traffic. Can you gather the gang for a quick meeting?” Thessaly listens to the husky voice on the phone while studying her chipped manicure. “Thanks! I’ll see you in twenty.”
Thessaly ends the call and sends a group text to her brothers.
Tess: Thank you for stashing forty tubes of Vagisil inside my carryon bag. TSA had quite the laugh.
Kip: You deserved it.
Shelby: Hey, Kip wanted to hide a jar of pickles. The nasty kind with the pickled cauliflower and carrots. I saved you.
Tess: I hate you both.
Kip: You crossed the line using THAT song as my ringtone, Tess.
Tess: But it’s a world of laughter . . .
Shelby: and a world of fear apparently.
Kip: Did the TSA flag you? Vagi-terrorist.
Tess: Revenge is near, brothers. It’s a small, small world.
Shelby: Ha ha ha! Sis, where do you keep the pot? It’s going to be a long summer with Lord Kipling in charge.
Tess: Check the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. Trader Joe’s bag.
Shelby: No fucking way. That’s brilliant.
Tess: It’s all yours.
Kip: Tess is a New Yorker now. She’s escalated to snorting lines of coke on the subway.
Shelby: Love ya.
Tess: xoxo
Kip: Pest
Tess: Jerk
Laughing quietly, Thessaly places her phone on her lap and peers between the layers of grime plastered on the backseat window. As the taxi picks up speed across the Brooklyn Bridge, the fading sunlight drips through the rusty cables and casts hues of sepia on the cars below. It’s a timeless photograph waiting to be captured. But like the millions of people before her, and the generations that will undoubtedly follow her, Thessaly Sinclair is merely one story – an immigrant taking the ceremonious passage to the island once known as New Amsterdam.
“Fulton and Water,” she instructs.
Following her orders, the cab swerves into the left lane without signaling, prompting the customary honk salute. One time, a few months back, Thessaly counted the seconds that elapsed over a single pressing of the horn. It’s become a backseat game – the current record being seven seconds.
As the cab idles at the corner of Water Street, Thessaly drops her phone into the large bag on the seat next to her. She removes two twenty-dollar bills from her wallet and waves them through the partition. He doesn’t seem thrilled with the small tip, but she wants to see if he’ll help with her rolling bag in the trunk before offering more cash.
The cab driver doesn’t move, but instead, pops in a cassette of creole music. Thessaly exits the taxi and slaps the trunk. It pops open with a loud creak and a rush of a strong citrus smell. She chucks her suitcase on the sidewalk, slams the trunk, careful not to smash the bags of navel oranges, and then proceeds to the cobbled street of Fulton.
Late afternoon is the least crowded in Lower Manhattan, especially on a Monday, but the Seaport is always packed with people enjoying the casual thrills of an urban playground. The newer restaurants, resurrected after Hurricane Sandy, serve light meals with some of the best happy hours Downtown. One of Thessaly’s favorite places, atop an original boat slip, celebrates the summer with ice cream waffle cones for three-dollars between five and seven.
Needing some caffeine and a dose of sugar, she makes a quick stop in the Seaport’s trendy coffee shop. She rolls her suitcase up to the counter and smiles, recognizing the barista.
“Hey, Tess! Usual?” he asks, grabbing a Sharpie from a coffee can.
“Hi, Noah – extra caramel and skim milk.” Thessaly enjoys all things sweet. In fact, if coffee beans were rolled in sugar and dipped in honey, she’d still add the swirl of caramel. “And extra ice, please.”
Noah scribbles her drink order in shorthand on the side of a plastic cup. “Five-fifty,” he says, starting the espresso drip. “Did you hear about the bees?”
Thessaly rolls her suitcase to the end of the counter to make room for more customers. “I read an online article – a bee swarm is really cool to watch.”
“Really? People down here are freaked!” Noah exclaims, scooping ice into the coffee shop’s signature orange plastic cups.
“A swarm can be terrifying, but honeybees couldn’t care less about humans. And people are scared of things they don’t understand.”
Swirling caramel on top of the skim milk, Noah passes the coffee across the butcher-block counter and announces in his best theatrical voice, “Iced latte with skim milk. Extra caramel. Extra ice. And extra love.”
“Thanks, Noah.” She slides a few bucks across the counter with a smile. “For your mint-green Vespa fund.”
Taking the money and shoving it in his apron pocket, Noah laughs. “How’d you know about that?”
“Meg,” she answers, walking backwards out of the coffee house with a sly smile.
Removing an orange dishtowel from below the bar, Noah shakes his head and laughs. He clears a plate and then wipes the counter. “Fare thee well, milady,” he shouts.
It’s no secret that Meg and Noah have a crush on each other. Since Noah began working at Fulton Beanery a few months ago, Meg has taken to three cups of coffee a day. She claims it’s because of the amazing blending technique, but she admitted recently that it’s Noah’s shaggy hair and cute dimples that started her coffee addiction. Thessaly doesn’t exactly see it, but she has yet to find a guy more attractive than Mason.
Approaching her store on Fulton Street, Thessaly pauses by a red bicycle leaning against the front window. With a giddy smile, she flings open the exterior metal door leading to a tiny vestibule lined with a honeycomb-patterned gold wallpaper. On one side, there’s a narrow console table painted glossy magenta that displays random objects in every shade of blue. The shop isn’t a typical artisanal store, and the only thing that hints at a bee farm is the rustic, interior screen door. With peeling yellow paint and a small rip in the lower screen, the old door is one of few items imported from her family’s farm.
Designing the store was a huge factor in the overall business plan. The Hive needed to be trendy and hip, but the basic methods of the business had to remain consistent in an evolving city. Thessaly committed to an upscale warehouse design, similar to the cottage on the farm, grounded in clean lines and luxurious materials. Marble counters, glossy white cabinetry, ebony-stained floors, and industrial lighting were all installed for a timeless, yet edgy appeal. For years to come, restaurants and food markets can purchase products from a reputable vendor directly from her store, and Downtown shoppers can experience an artisanal shop that embodies the vibe of the diverse neighborhood.
Once she had a business plan, securing the space at a decent price was fairly easy. The Seaport needed to rebuild after Sandy, and Thessaly had the expendable funds to make that happen. Diving into her savings and taking a loan from a bank, as well as a loan from the Department of Small Business Services of New York City, The Hive was completed in only eight months. During the week of her grand opening, she moved out of the apartment she shared with Mason in SoHo, and settled into a cozy, yet affordable, studio apartment a few blocks away from The Hive.
“Whose beach cruiser is parked outside?” Thessaly asks, propping the screen door open with her suitcase.
“Oh, that’s Cherry Bomb,” Seth interjects.
Placing her iced latte on the long marble island and attaching her phone to a charger, Thessaly laughs. “Are the handlebar streamers on backorder?”
“Along with the horn,” Meg quips.
“You’re just jealous of my sweet ride,” Seth defends.
Snorting with laughter, Meg scoots up to the island on a black stool and places her phone on the counter. She takes a sip from Thessaly’s coffee and purses her lips. “Gross, Tess.”
Grabbing the latte from Meg, she snaps, “Hey, it was lovingly prepared by your friend Noah.”
“Uh-oh, No-ah.” Seth chants, grabbing the stool next to Meg.
“I can’t take much more of him.” Frustrated, she adds, “He’s like the annoying red-headed stepchild.”
Seth wraps his arm around Meg and squeezes tightly. “You’re so cute when you bitch.”
“Children, behave. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll buy lunch this week. Deal?” Thessaly barters.
Meg claps her hands and agrees. “Sushi!”
“Chipotle!” counters Seth.
“Fine. Where’s Lois?” Thessaly asks.
Checking the texts on her phone, Meg replies, “Um, she sent me a text earlier about having to do something with her daughter. We could get her on speaker if you want.”
“No, no – let’s get started.” Thessaly moves a blue vase filled with sunflowers to the end of the island and then places her laptop in its spot. “Our next shipment is coming on the fourteenth, which gives us a week to test some new ideas. What’s the schedule like this week?”
Meg opens an app on her phone to read off the week’s appointments and meetings. “Tomorrow we’re hosting a booth at New Amsterdam Market. They requested we bring a selection of jams as opposed to honey – not sure what that’s about. Seth will man the booth until three, and then Lois will close it up and bring back any inventory.”
“Jams? Okay, maybe there’s a theme or something.” With an intimidating glare, Thessaly asks, “You gonna push that jam, Seth?”
Seth raises his eyebrows and replies, “I’m a jam pusher. Jam, jam, jam.” His hand taps invisible words as he says, “The Hive is my jam.”
“Nice. Take tons of photos and post them as the day goes on. What else, Meg?”
“Wednesday you have a sit-down with a wedding planner and her bride. She wants shabby chic things for her wedding on Shelter Island slated for Columbus Day Weekend.” Meg sarcastically uses air quotes as she reads her notes.
“Awesome – remind me to wear overalls that day.”
“And a straw hat. Okay, Thursday the shop is being photographed for a foodie blog and magazine – excellent exposure, but they’re also expecting country charm nestled in the Seaport. And then Friday, you have a meeting with that incredibly hot chef from Les Etoiles. I should probably go with you.”
“Oh, please. My meetings with Pete are usually twenty minutes of me gawking like an idiot while he tries to chat about normal things.” Thessaly opens a document on her laptop and continues. “Anything I should know about from the weekend?”
“Not only was it the Fourth, but that bee swarm scared everyone away. Very slow weekend,” Seth drones. “Oh, and the fireworks were just so-so.”
Meg jabs Seth in the side and whispers, “Tell her about that guy.”
“What guy?” Thessaly interrupts.
“A mysterious voice called earlier asking for you specifically. He didn’t want to leave a message.” Seth waggles his eyebrows and grins.
Thessaly shudders. “Sounds like a creeper.”
“Not at all! His voice was sexy,” defends Meg, nudging Seth in the ribs.
Taking the hint, Seth deadpans, “Um, yeah. Totally weird and sexy.”
“Oh? Maybe he’ll call again,” Thessaly replies casually, remembering that Mason’s voice is deep and sexy.
“Flies to honey,” Meg hums.
“For real, Meg? My grandma tells better jokes.” Seth laughs as Meg shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, Tess, what are these new ideas we’ll be testing?”
Slapping the counter in the rhythm of a drumroll, Thessaly chirps, “Finally! On to the exciting new additions.”
Seth matches the pitch of her enthusiasm while asking, “Are we finally getting a Donkey Kong arcade? If we remove a few shelves in that corner it will definitely fit.”
“Keep the dream alive, Seth.” Thessaly slurps her sugary coffee, leaving only the ice, and then leans toward her friends prepared to tell a secret. “Hear me out – so, I walked around downtown Asheville on Saturday afternoon after jumping in the fountains in Pack Square. It was eye-opening to say the least – almost every storefront was a quirky knockoff of the West Village. Ridiculous signs plastered in windows bragging about locally-grown sustainable artisan foods – those tag lines are sadly becoming the gourmet trend of the nineties.” Thessaly glances at the framed black and white photo of her family’s barn hanging on the wall behind the register and takes a deep breath. “Later that night, after too many shots of honey whiskey and two slices of red-velvet wedding cake, I had a Don Draper moment.”
“You had sex with a waitress in an alley?” Seth asks flatly.
Thessaly flicks the air in front of Seth’s face. “No, you dork. I sat on the back steps of the barn, swept away by the fresh air . . . intoxicated by the smell of wild honeysuckle . . . clouded by the flashes of the mountain fireworks. And then it hit me – if you don’t like what people are saying,” Thessaly says.
“Change the conversation,” Meg and Seth finish in unison.
“Exactly.” Thessaly’s eyes expand in excitement as she opens a digital sketch on her laptop. “We need to reinvent artisan honey. Look around us, we’re surrounded by six restaurants serving only locally-farmed ingredients, and ten stores claiming to have hand-crafted inventory.” Animated and hyper, she continues. “Artisanal coffee? What do those words even mean if everyone uses them?”
“Usually it just means homemade – which means a shitload of hands touched my food.” Seth growls.
“Right?” Thessaly concurs.
“What about all-natural or raw honey?” Meg suggests. “The Hive is keepin’ it real.”
Thessaly stands from the island and grabs a jar of Sinclair honey from the nearest shelf. “Basic marketing principle, Meg, people want a fantasy, or sex, or a fantasy including sex. They don’t want to visualize a hippie-chick with armpit hair pouring all-natural, raw honey into BPA-free bottles and then driving across the country with a truckload of crates to sell at farmer’s markets.” Positioning the jar in the palm of her hand like the forbidden fruit, Thessaly declares with carnal precision, “We’re not selling raw honey. We’re selling a confection of anarchy.” Her voice lowers to a rasp as she stresses each word. “Primitive. Uncultivated. Luxuriant. Nectarous. Sensual.” Pausing for effect, Thessaly watches as her friends’ faces flicker with excitement. “And starting in a few weeks, The Hive will be Lower Manhattan’s supplier of wild honey.”
Mouth open and eyes sparkling, Meg adds, “We’re like honey dealers!”
Placing the jar on the island, Thessaly spins her laptop around in order to reveal the new template for the upcoming brand.
“It’s brilliant – are these new labels?” Seth asks.
Thessaly nods while maximizing the screen.
Impressed, Seth adds, “That font is perfect. Is your family okay with this? Sinclair Wild Honey will move away from the current down-home feel.”
“Ah, I knew you would bring that up, Seth. Sinclair Wild Honey is a division of Sinclair Honey – it’ll be like the Sprite to the Coke. Mama filed for the trademark this morning before I left – she loves the idea.”
“So what’s the timeline? Are we doing a launch?” Meg asks.
“Always on point, Meg.” Thessaly winks. “July seventeenth is the perfect weekend to launch Wild Honey. We’ll open the doors to a sidewalk party. Maybe even have a cooking contest?”
“Eating contest!” Meg exclaims.
Smiling in agreement, Thessaly says, “I’m sure I can convince the Salt Shop to hook us up with some honey beer ice cream.”
“Do you want me to get started on the website?” Seth presses, being that graphic designer is his actual job title.
“Turquoise, yellow, and black – modern and sexy,” Thessaly instructs. “Meg, you’re in charge of social media, and see if you can have your friend at Time Out New York give us some love.”
“I’m having dinner with her on Thursday,” Meg offers.
Thessaly glances at her watch before saying, “I’ve only got one final question.” She smiles at her employees – her friends – her visionaries. “Are y’all fucking excited?”
“Oh, wow! Tess, the dirty-mouthed cheerleader from North Carolina – I’ve missed her,” Seth exclaims.
Mocking her southern roots, Thessaly drawls, “Meeting adjourned, y’all.”
The three stand from the marble island and gather their things. Thessaly returns the vase of sunflowers to the center, smiling at the promise of a vibrant summer.
“Shall we celebrate with some libations? I’ll even buy a round,” Seth suggests as the trio file through the screen door. As he locks the main door, Meg hops on and straddles his red bike. “Meg! Cherry Bomb is not a toy,” he hisses.
“Does your grandma know you stole her bike? And what do you put in this basket?” Meg asks, opening the lid to the wicker compartment.
“Kittens,” he deadpans.
Thessaly heaves her carryon bag over her shoulder and laughs. “You kids have fun – I’m burnt from the weekend.”
The three say their goodbyes as they make their way toward Beekman Street, Thessaly rolling her suitcase, and Meg coasting along on Seth’s bike while he flicks her arm.
“Here’s my stop,” Thessaly announces.
“Get some rest, Draper,” Meg teases.
“Later alligator,” Seth adds, steering the handlebars to the bicycle as Meg blows kisses.
Thessaly catches the invisible kisses before heading north. Her apartment building is an easy four blocks from the shop, and on a breezy evening like tonight, it’s one of the many things she loves about living in the City.
Popping into Starbucks for another dose of sugar, Thessaly weaves her suitcase through the maze of bistro tables. At the counter, Thessaly realizes she hasn’t eaten anything all day except the king-size bag of Skittles on the plane. She orders her usual, venti vanilla ice latte with skim milk and extra caramel syrup. And to ward off her hunger, she adds two double-chocolate chip cookies to her order.
With an iced latte and cookies in one hand, and her rolling bag being pulled gracefully by the other, she continues to her apartment on Pearl Street like a seasoned traveler. As Thessaly approaches her building, she notices a man, tall and athletic, fitting a foam egg-crate atop a sleeping bag. She can only see his backside, but his cargo shorts reveal tanned, muscular calves, and his fitted T-shirt exposes his well-defined arms. She considers approaching him, confused by his purpose and current state of distress, but ultimately decides to wait until tomorrow when it’s daylight.
But as the man slides his makeshift bed into the small alcove between two buildings, Thessaly catches a shimmering flash of indigo coming from inside a large jar atop a camping stool. She takes a few steps closer, staying in the shadows of the towering buildings so as not to be caught spying. Squinting, Thessaly can make out the outline of at least a dozen peacock feathers contained inside the jar. Puzzled by their entrapment, she furrows her brows while advancing closer.
In an instant, the man returns to the sidewalk to gather the rest of his things. Startled, Thessaly emits a tiny squeal as she trips backwards over her suitcase. She maintains her balance, but winces in agonizing pain. Vulnerable, Thessaly flinches and retreats backwards as the man stares down at her – his gaze intense but genuine. Beneath the luminescent shadows glowing from the street lamp, stands a man with a set of eyes in the greenest shade of hazel – harmless yet penetrating.
What does he want?
He quickly glances at the Starbucks items in Thessaly’s hand, causing her to recoil even further in embarrassment.
Maybe he’s homeless. “Hi. Would you like a cookie?”God, that’s insensitive. “Or a latte?” Oh for fuck’s sake.
The man smirks – he’s amused by the blonde with the Starbucks and the kind heart. He bends over to grab his jar and a small leather journal, and then cradles his possessions in his arm. With one last look at Thessaly and a subtle nod, the man with the peacock feathers disappears into the alcove.
He couldn’t be much older than me. He didn’t seem like a psycho. Maybe he’s not homeless – maybe he’s a European performance artist.
Feeling comfortable with her rationalizations about the mysterious man, Thessaly heads into her building. After trading hellos with the lazy doorman and a neighbor whom she doesn’t know, Thessaly takes the elevator up to the third floor. Stumbling into her apartment lifeless and exhausted, Thessaly leaves her suitcase by the door, kicks off her fuchsia pumps, and crashes on her couch with her cookies, coffee, and laptop.
Oddly, she doesn’t even own a television, much to the dismay of her friends and family, but there isn’t a need. Thessaly is frugal where it counts, opting to buy handbags and shoes instead of tossing away funds on a cable plan she never uses. The subscription to Netflix, high-speed internet, and an entire digital library of books and magazines at her disposal are enough to keep her preoccupied on an entertainment budget.
Shoving large chunks of cookie in her mouth and chasing them down with her sugary latte, Thessaly returns a few emails to vendors. She then scrolls through Facebook and replies to a few messages on The Hive’s business page, deleting the ones that ask for money or sex.
