Chapter 15: No Joke, Just the Door

Victor's POV

I wrote eleven drafts of what I would say at her door, and I deleted every one of them in the elevator.

Draft three had a joke about the cat.

Draft seven had a joke about the cot.

Draft nine opened with "Per our terms," and I deleted that one with the most feeling.

The superintendent was in the lobby when I came in, mopping the same square of tile he had been mopping all week.

"The duffel guy," he said.

"Yes."

"You been sleeping at the plant?"

"There's a cot."

"That's no way to live," he said, and went back to his mop.

I pressed the elevator button, thought better of it, and took the stairs.

I had never in my life been so afraid of four flights.

At her door, I held a paper cup of lukewarm oolong, a lemon wedge in a sandwich bag, and nothing else.

I knocked twice.

Nadia opened it in the gray Fun Run T-shirt, with her hair up and a legal pad in her hand.

She looked at the cup, and the bag, and then at me.

"You came to the door," she said.

"I was told it's customary."

"A dollar."

"That's not a dodge. That's a fact about doors."

"I'm drafting." She lifted the pad. "I was writing the memo."

"Can I see it?"

She hesitated, then handed it over.

It was a clean page with a header.

Option A was: Annulment. The risk was: Nothing happens to him. Everything happens to me.

Option B was: Stay as is, couch, jar, paper only. The risk was: He keeps being polite.

I read that line twice.

Option C was blank.

I turned the page over to check the back.

"You listed me as Option B," I said.

"You're always B."

"I've been B for a week."

"You've been B for seven years, if we're being accurate."

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