I like the atmosphere of his place: the sunken-in vintage furniture, the knives and forks all organized in the right places, a bowl of fruit always filled.
When it’s just the two of us it makes me feel like we’re in a romantic comedy; a couple in love just before the plot twist that tears them apart. But we’re not in love, and this is New York, so in truth he has two other roommates: internationals from Spain and Nigeria who are mostly heard and not seen. I’ve only caught glimpses of one roommate, a man named Bruno from Granada, who flits through the house in a soccer jersey and leaves their tiny kitchen smelling of potatoes and peppers and saffron.
The last time we shared wine, on a night not so dissimilar to this one,
I mentioned the years in high school I worked at a country club upstate and how much practice I’d had opening wine bottles, but when he offered it to me to open, I broke the cork in half and we spent the night dodging the bits of floating material that fell into the bottle and poured out into our glasses.
Published by Split Lip Magazine