Free Trouble by Kate Christensen Page A

motion of the almost-empty train until I was nearly asleep. I got out at Twenty-third Street and walked the darkening early-evening blocks west and south to my building, my head full of spiderwebs, my eyes grainy with fatigue. The trees were bare, the sidewalks grimy. Tinkly Christmas carols assaulted me as I walked through a vendor’s piney sidewalk grove of chopped-down, tied-up Christmas trees. He sat in a folding chair in a little jerry-rigged shelter, hunched into his coat and scarf, a small heater burning at his feet.
    It amazed me how quickly my fight with Indrani, if that was what it was, had escalated. It felt as if this rupture had always been there, waiting to happen, inevitable in the differences between us, our circumstances and upbringings and personalities. She clung to consistency and stasis after a childhood of upsetting, confusing upheavals, whereas I, having been stuck in the small California town where I was born until I left for college, having been raised by quasi-devout Catholic parents who stayed together for life despite gross incompatibility and mutual boredom, eagerly embraced any kind of change as long as it was in a positive direction. Maybe Indrani and I had both overreacted, had both leapt too quickly to our respective corners, but I couldn’t help feeling completely blindsided by her reaction. I had always empathized loyally with her and taken her side in everything, no matter what. I had somehow expected the same in return, and that had been a mistake. She seemed to need me to stay the same; I needed to change, so badly that I was willing to sacrifice a close, old friendship, if that was what it took.
    I unlocked the front door of my building, climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and let myself into our apartment. It was quiet, exactly as I had left it that morning. As always after I’d spent time at Indrani’s, our perfectly nice two-bedroom apartment looked shabby and small and plain. The old brown chair in the living room had a dark stain on the headrest; the TV screen was dusty; the hall rug had a hole right by the bathroom doorsill; the Formica counters in the kitchen were covered with burn and scuff marks, stains, and dents; the whole place needed repainting, and the rooms felt close and cramped, the ceilings low.
    No one was home yet. My sleepiness was overwhelming. I went into Anthony’s and my bedroom, where I took off all my clothes and put them away, shivering even though the room was warm. I put on my pajamas, got into bed, and was asleep so fast, I wasn’t aware of any time having passed when I awoke. The room was dark, and my head ached. I listened drowsily for sounds of someone home. I saw a light through the crack under the door, so someone was there. Gradually, I became aware of cooking smells, faint kitchen noises, water running from the sink faucet, a pot lid rattling. I curled up more deeply under the covers and closed my eyes again and fell into a waking doze. A while later, the bedroom door opened.
    “Josie?” Anthony said in a low voice. “I made some spaghetti, if you want some.”
    “Ummph,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll be right out.”
    I got up and put on my bathrobe and wandered out to the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Anthony was sitting at the kitchen table with a book propped in front of him, already eating. I took a plate from the cupboard and scooped some pasta onto my plate. I knew it wouldn’t be cooked enough for my liking; Anthony, whose parents were both Italian, insisted on taking al dente literally, despite my frequently pointing out that the pasta was not nearly as good that way. I glopped some tomato sauce on top of the pasta; this, at least, would be palatable, because I’d bought it ready-made at Whole Foods for Anthony and Wendy to eat when I wasn’t home to cook for them.
    “More wine?” I said, pouring myself a glass from the bottle on the counter.
    “Sure,” he said, pushing his wineglass forward on the table without