Manhattan Is My Beat

Destined never to be a tall, sultry lover, Rune had flirtatious down cold.
    “I’m feeling deprived,” he pouted.
    She started to give him another
Oh, please
glance but he meant the joint the Woodpecker was holding. “Hey, darling, to each according to his need.” The woman inhaled long and gave it to him. He took a drag then passed it to Rune.
    He said, “What we’ll do is assume a Tantra yoga position.”
    Rune said, “Tantra yoga?”
    “Isn’t that the sex one?” the Woodpecker asked.
    Rune gave Richard an exasperated grimace.
    He said, “People think sex is the thing with Tantra yoga. Wrong. It’s breathing. It teaches you how to breathe the right way.”
    Rune said, “I
know
how to breathe. I’m good at it. I’ve been doing it all my life.”
    “Shall we assume the position?”
    She was about to hit him with a pillow, when he slipped into an awkward sitting position, three feet away from her, and started to breathe deeply. “Fully clothed,” he said. “I meant to add that.”
    Rune said, “You look like you hurt yourself in a bad fall.”
    The TV screen flickered, the copyright notice came on.
    “Sit next to me,” he said. She hesitated. Then did. Their knees touched. She felt a spark of electricity but didn’t move any closer.
    “What do we do now?”
    “Breathe deep and watch the show.”
    “Yeah,” Rune called to the Woodpecker, “what’s the movie you picked?”
    The credits for
Lesbos Lovers
came on the screen. The blonde pulled the Woodpecker groggily toward her and covered her mouth with her own. Their arms wound around each other and their fingers began undoing buttons.
    Rune whispered to Richard, “Oh, you meant
that
show?”
    Richard shrugged. “Either one.”

     
    In the morning, when Rune woke up, Richard was making coffee on her hot plate.
    She asked, “Where’re your friends?” She was looking intently for something under the cushions. She surfaced with her Colgate and toothbrush.
    He looked around. “Dunno.”
    “You find the john?”
    “Downstairs. I liked the plastic dinosaurs. You did the decorating yourself, I assume.”
    Rune was examining him. Now he seemed out of place, wearing the black outfit—night clothes—in the bright, open-air loft.
    He said, “What’s your real name? It’s not really Rune, is it?”
    “Everybody asks me about my name.”
    “What do you tell them?” he asked. “The truth?”
    “But what’s the truth?” Rune smiled at him ambiguously.
    Richard laughed. “But the fact you’ve got a fake name is very interesting. Philosophically, I mean. You know what Walker Percy says about naming? He doesn’t mean like first names or family names but humans giving names to things. He says that naming is different from everything else in the universe. A wholly unique act. Think about that.”
    She did, for a moment, then said, “A year ago, I worked in a diner over on Ninth Avenue. I was Doris then. I think I only took the job to get the name tag they gave us. It said, ‘Chelsea Diner. Hi! I’m Doris.’ “
    He nodded uncertainly. “Doris.”
    She said, “So, what do you do, Richard?”
    “Stuff.”
    “Oh. I see,” she said dubiously.
    “Okay. I’m working on a novel.” She knew he was a writer or artist. “What’s it about?”
    “I don’t really talk about it much. I’m at a tricky part right now.”
    This was even better. A mystery man writing a mysterious novel. In the throes of creative angst.
    “I write,” she said.
    “You do?”
    “A diary.” Rune pulled a thick, water- and ink-stained booklet off the shelf. A picture of a knight—cut from a magazine—was pasted on the cover. “My mother’s kept a diary every day of her life. I’ve only been doing it for a few years. But I write down everything that’s major in my life.” She nodded at a dozen other booklets on the shelf.
    “Everything?” he asked.
    “Nearly.”
    “You going to write anything about me?” Richard asked. He was looking at the notebooks as if he wanted a peek.
    “Maybe,” Rune said, combing her hair out with her fingers.
    He said, “And you … You want to be an actress, right?”
    “Guess again. You’re thinking of what’s-her-name: Woody Woodpecker.”
    “Who?”
    “Your friend last night. With the orange hair. The one who ran off with your girlfriend?”
    “Whoa, not my girlfriend. She’s not even close to bi. I made a pass at her once—”
    “You?” Rune asked sarcastically.
    “I met her last week at a party. We