Free The Hazards of Sleeping Alone by Elise Juska Page B

know what’s wrong with him. Usually he’ll meow for new people. Come to think of it, he’s seemed a little under the weather all day.” Charlotte shifts her bag to the other hip.
    â€œI sense these things, you know,” Ruth goes on. “It’s like with a child, you can just tell when something’s off even if they don’t say it.” She appeals to Emily. “The vet says it’s amazing, the way I read this cat.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry,” Emily says. “He looks fine to me. But hey, if you don’t mind my asking—what’s up with the leash?”
    This is more than all the incentive Ruth needs to launch into the numerous rationales behind leash-walking Ernie: quotes from magazines, assessments by veterinarians, a catalog of Ernie’s strikingly doglike qualities. “He can heel and roll over,” she says. “Sometimes he even fetches my slippers. The vet says he’s never seen anything like it.”
    Emily nods, the expression on her face carefully engaged, but Charlotte can see the laughter simmering beneath it. And in that moment, she realizes what makes having Emily here so wonderful: it reinforces the difference between Charlotte and the kind of people who live at these kinds of places. Sad people, single people, people who live alone in condos with cats on leashes, wishing their children would visit more often. With Emily here, Charlotte has a partner. Someone to echo her reactions, confirm her opinions. To set her apart.
    â€œWe really better get inside,” Charlotte says, nodding her chin at the bags.
    â€œOh, sure,” Ruth says. “Well, it was fun to meet you, Emily. Hopefully we’ll run into you again, won’t we, Ern?” She bends over the cat’s thick golden head, cups her hands around her mouth, and whispers: “Say bye-bye, Ernie! Say bye-bye!”
    Thankfully, Ruth draws the line at actually voicing Ernie. Charlotte and Emily rush for the door before laughter overtakes them.
    â€œWhat
was
that thing?” Emily says, giggling.
    â€œSsshh!” Charlotte splutters. “Not until we’re inside.”
    â€œBut what was it?”
    â€œA cat.”
    â€œThat was no cat.”
    â€œOf course it was.”
    â€œMom, that woman was insane.”
    â€œBe nice. She’s a widow.”
    â€œAn insane widow.”
    They huddle in the doorway while Charlotte wrestles with her locks. She can’t remember the last time she felt this giddy. She grabs her mail and pushes open the door. Emily is behind her, peering into B. Morgan’s mailbox. She plucks out the pink Victoria’s Secret catalog poking from the top.
    â€œEmily!” Charlotte hisses. “Put that back!”
    â€œWhy? Whose is it?”
    â€œWell, hers, obviously.” Charlotte steps into the foyer and beckons Emily inside. “B. Morgan’s.”
    â€œB? Is that her real name or does it stand for something?”
    â€œI have no idea what it stands for.”
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œI’ve never met her. I’ve never even seen her.”
    â€œThat’s weird.”
    â€œIs it?” It hadn’t struck Charlotte as weird. She heads for the kitchen, Emily trailing behind her, resuming her normal volume. “You don’t think it’s weird you’ve never seen the person who lives directly upstairs?”
    â€œNot really. She seems to go out most nights. Weekends she must sleep late, I guess.”
    â€œMaybe she’s a hooker.”
    Charlotte feels a tug at her lungs. “What?”
    â€œI mean, long shot, but it would explain her schedule. And her, you know, nightlife.” Emily heaves her bags onto the counter. Without looking at Charlotte’s stricken face, she says, “Mom, please don’t freak out. I’m sure she’s not. I’m just saying.” She dips a hand into her bag and pulls out the Victoria’s Secret.
    After a