Free Two of a Kind by Yona Zeldis McDonough

wasn’t any traffic,” she said.
    â€œYou’d have been on time even if there had been traffic.” His approval was evident.
    Christina just smiled. They were on their way to an estate sale in Dutchess County that had sounded promising; she’d mentioned to Andy that she was planning to go and he’d surprised her by asking if he could tag along. She was looking for a mirror, a coffee table, and the small chest of drawers she’d envisioned to replace his current nightstand. His apartment had been decorated by a notable downtown firm and was quite austere, with lots of sharp angles and sleek surfaces; the color scheme was confined to a muted palette of gray, ivory, taupe, and black. Christina could recognize the intelligence of the design and appreciate the care with which it had been executed, but it left her cold. Andy said he had loved the decor at first, less so now. “When Rachel was alive, she seemed to give the place personality,” he said. “But now that she’s not . . .” He said he wanted more of everything: more color, more pattern, more texture.
    â€œSo you think we can get there by nine?” he was saying now, strapping the seat belt across his chest. He consulted his watch—he did this constantly—a bulbous, complicated thing crammed with tiny dials that indicated the time not only all over the world but most likely on several nearby planets as well.
    â€œDepends on the traffic,” Christina said.
    He nodded, still looking at the watch. Then he looked up. “Have you eaten?”
    She nodded. “But if you’re hungry, we could stop along the way.”
    â€œNo, I come prepared,” he said, and reached into the backpack to produce a power bar that was identical to the ones Jordan seemed to think were an essential food group. “We can split it if you like.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Christina said. She’d tried one of those bars—never again.
    â€œTwenty grams of protein in here,” Andy said, opening the foil wrapper. “And seven grams of fiber.”
    Christina tried to keep her face a blank; why would anyone eat something that tasted so awful, protein and fiber notwithstanding? She concentrated on getting back onto the FDR, and then onto Harlem River Drive. Traffic slowed for a while; an accident up ahead turned the stream of cars into a trickle. But things opened up again and soon they were on I-95, heading north. She glanced over at Andy. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be dozing; the empty power bar wrapper was in his lap. She was relieved, actually, not to have to make small talk with him. He could be bossy and brusque and she’d had to contend with his pen-tapping-wristwatch-checking brand of impatience. But he was also willing to consider her suggestions with an open mind, and was refreshingly decisive, a rarity among clients. In the three or so weeks since she’d been working for him, he had selected all the paint colors, decided on a very expensive new rug for the living room, and approved her purchase of a new lamp, as well as a cunning little movable bar that was designed to look like an old steamer trunk.
    She glanced out the side window. I-95 was so boring—the occasional rest stop, endless signs for McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and their kin—and she wished she could have turned on
South Pacific
again. But it seemed rude to wake Andy, and though she had headphones buried somewhere in the car, there was no way she could dig them out now. So she drove in silence, plotting her course at the sale. Caryn Braider needed a sofa and an armoire; she was also looking for a wrought iron chandelier and a folding screen—if she could find such a thing. Then there was the Haverstick house, but Christina wasn’t going to buy a thing for that; it might jinx her chances of getting the job. She was able to keep these running lists in her mind, though in the backseat,