Free Hide Your Eyes by Alison Gaylin

you?’ he said, exhaling blue-tinged smoke.

    ‘What’s wrong with me ? What’s wrong with you ? Is your brain that firmly embedded in your pants? He’s an asshole, Yale. A hostile, misogynous asshole. I can’t believe you wanted me to meet him.’

    ‘Number one, he is not a misogynist - he just has a slightly off sense of humor, which you might have even appreciated if you weren’t so hell-bent on hating him. Number two, you were the hostile one in there. I mean, Je Cre. hasus. You do anything else besides wait tables and pick up complete strangers? What kind of a question is that?’

    ‘Yale . . . I think he might be the same man I saw at the river.’

    ‘Oh, spare me. Did you feel Dead Man’s Fingers again?’

    I glared at him.

    ‘You get chills up your spine, you see a couple dumping trash, and your mind just spins out of control. Think about it. Just do me a favor and think logically—’

    ‘Did you see the way he glared at me when he told me I look familiar?’

    Yale blinked. ‘You know what you need? You need a good night’s sleep, you need a few healthy meals—’

    ‘Peter himself said the contacts were one of a kind.’

    ‘He bought them this morning.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘After you left, I asked.’

    ‘And you believed him?’

    ‘You think little Tredwell would’ve been that shocked if he’d worn them during his weekend shifts? Peter’s contact lens salesman lied to him, the couple was not disposing of body parts, and you are not psychic. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to walk to work by myself and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.’

    Yale buttoned up his cashmere coat. It was deliciously soft and chocolate brown and to wrap it around your shoulders was to feel unconditionally loved. His parents had given it to him for Christmas. I’d been at his apartment when he’d opened the UPS box. ‘And you don’t have to worry about Peter, because you scared him off. He says no one’s worth the company I keep.’

    I stood there for several seconds, watching Yale’s brown cashmere back disappear up Sixth Avenue. I hadn’t mentioned the tattoo; not that it would’ve made any difference.

    My throat felt raw and knotted, and pressure was building up behind my eyes. I knew I wouldn’t start crying on the corner of Sixth and West Fourth in broad daylight with thick groups of pedestrians rushing past me toward the subway, but I wanted to.

    I looked at my watch. It was two minutes past ten already, with at least ten more minutes to get to the theater, even if I ran. There was a pay phone on the corner, so I fished around in my bag for a quarter and called work.

    ‘Thank you so much for calling the Space.’

    At first, I didn’t recognize the voice, but then it hit me. ‘Hi, Hermyn. Roland’s got you answering phones now, huh?’

    ‘Oh, C sing hi, Samantha. I thought you were my mother.’

    I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘Can you tell Roland that Yale and I are running late? We both had to run a few errands.’

    ‘Okay. He was wondering where you guys were, so he’ll be glad you called . . .’ Hermyn’s voice tilted up at the end of the sentence, like she wanted to talk. I was freezing, and although I felt sorry for her, sitting on her hard little chair near the door with Shell Clarion staring bullets through her back, I was in no mood to discuss her wedding plans. ‘Bye,’ I said, and hung up before she could respond.

     
    Two minutes later, I was navigating my way through a slow-walking family of eight on West Tenth. ‘Excuse you!’ shouted the grandmother when I brushed by her mink. I stopped and examined her. Like the rest of her family, she had pink cheeks, a huge head a and a thick, sturdy body. They were, I decided, on vacation from a safe, friendly state, embraced by land on all sides. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, because I didn’t feel like saying ‘sorry’ to some landlocked old mink-wearing bitch right now.

    I increased my pace, focused on