Turn 69 of 228

Walk her home and see what her apartment looks like now and ask if she will show up to work naked on Monday, she says yes

They walk west on Garfield and the night is warm and the streetlights catch them and Lena says, "I'll walk you home." Diane doesn't answer. She shifts the bags to one hand and they walk and the sidewalk is rough and their bare feet slap the concrete and the bodega hums behind them. They pass the Charleswood and the marquee is dark now and row seven holds the boots and the pants and the crumpled blouse and the theater is closed and the night moves on.

They walk six blocks north and three blocks west and Lena hasn't been to Diane's apartment before. It's a brownstone on Elm with a red door and a narrow stoop and Diane climbs the steps and the bags rustle and her naked body catches the porch light and she pulls a key from somewhere — Lena doesn't see where, there are no pockets, no jacket, nothing — and the key is in her hand and she unlocks the door and pushes it open and the smell comes out. It comes out in a wave. Stronger than the elevator. Stronger than the theater. The full concentrated accumulation of a body unwashed for two weeks in a closed space and Lena steps inside and the smell is everywhere and it's rich and biological and it smells like her apartment.

The apartment is small — smaller than Lena's — a studio with a kitchenette along one wall and a bed against the other and a desk in the corner. The bed is unmade and the sheets are stained and the pillow is yellowed and there are clothes on the floor — not many, a few items, the ironed blouses and slacks from before, neatly hung on a garment bag on the closet door as though Diane packed them away. The kitchen counter is covered with containers — takeout boxes and chip bags and peanut butter cup wrappers and wine bottles and the dark chocolate packaging and the salsa jar is open on the counter with a spoon in it. The trash can is overflowing. There are stains on the floor — not many, not yet, but the beginning of something. The bathroom door is open and Lena can see the shower — the glass is dry, the floor is dry, the towel is folded on the rack and hasn't been moved. The sink has a film. The mirror is dusty.

Diane sets the bags on the counter and starts unpacking — chips in the cabinet, salsa in the fridge, wine on the counter, peanut butter cups on the nightstand. She moves through the apartment naked and her body catches the light and the belly sways and the breasts shift and the stubble on her jaw and chest and the hair under her arms and the hair on her forearms and the dirty soles of her feet and the smell — she moves through it the way Lena moves through her own apartment. Like it's home. Like it's always been home. Like the version of this place that had ironed blouses and a made bed and a clean shower was the performance and this is the truth.

Lena stands in the doorway and the smell is thick and the apartment is small and warm and Diane is putting peanut butter cups on the nightstand beside the bed and Lena says, "Monday." Diane doesn't turn around. She opens a peanut butter cup and eats it and the wrapper falls on the bed and she says, "What about it." Lena says, "Are you going to show up naked?" Diane chews and swallows and her back is to Lena and the back of her body is visible — the shoulders soft and rounded, the fold where the back meets the belly, the hips wide and the flesh dimpled and the legs thick and pressing together and the hair on the back of her thighs visible in the lamplight. She says, "Yes." She says it the way she said 'amazing' about the barefoot Monday. The way she said 'I'm not going back.' The way Lena said it to herself in the bathroom mirror a month ago. Not a decision. A recognition.

Lena says, "Good." Diane turns around and she's holding a peanut butter cup and her belly is round and her breasts are heavy and the stubble catches the light and she says, "Next Saturday." Lena says, "Next Saturday." The red door closes and Lena walks home and the night is warm and the sidewalk is rough and her bare feet slap the concrete and she weighs 312 pounds and the wish hums and Monday is two days away.