Steamed

that Noah had had sex with a blonde with bad roots and tawdry fashion sense.
    Adrianna is an independent hairstylist who works for herself. In private, she likes to say that she is willing to do almost anything nonsexual for money. She’ll do hair, clothes, and makeup. She’ll liquor up a terrified bride who refuses to walk down the aisle without a dirty martini in her system. Unfortunately for me, she sleeps until noon most days, so I was left to stew about my love life alone.
    I was lonely. And pissed off. It had been seventeen months since I’d had a real boyfriend, a real relationship that didn’t involve “arrangements” and “mutual understandings.” What really annoyed me was that I didn’t need a boyfriend to feel fulfilled. I liked my alone time. I could watch videos without snuggling with a guy on the couch. I was a self-reliant woman. I just wanted somebody in my life. I was fighting back tears. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t find a normal boyfriend? I wandered in and out of my bedroom and looked around at my disheveled apartment. Even if I got my act together today and cleaned up the mountainous piles of laundry strewn across the bedroom floor, there would still be the matter of the damn non-dishwasher-safe pans molding in the sink—the dumb pans I’d stupidly bought thinking, Of course, I won’t mind a few extra high-quality pans to scrub. Well, no wonder no one wanted to be with me. Every guy out there probably sensed that I was a huge slob with a schizophrenic decorating sense. I eyed my walls with growing embarrassment.
    In a moment of inspiration after watching some cable do-it-yourself show, I had taped off a series of lines on my bedroom walls and halfheartedly started to paint alternating stripes of Tiffany blue and homestead yellow. In my rush to create a dramatic transformation, I had failed to level the lines, which now angled crookedly across the room. Also, when I had started to remove the tape from the wall, bits of plaster had ripped off, leaving a real disaster behind. I’d left the remaining tape in place in the hope of creating the impression of a composition in progress with artistic results to come. I had to stop watching those home improvement shows.
    I hauled myself toward the bathroom to take a shower. En route, I passed through the neon-red living room. What had I been thinking? Neon red! I had to get out of the house. Even if it meant the risk of running into Evil Noah, I had to get out. But first, I needed to handle my mortification by getting the best revenge; I was going to look good. And so began a long shower, complete with ginger-rosemary salt scrub, grapefruit shampoo, banana conditioner, and green-tea bath splash. I shaved every traditionally shaveable part of my body. After a careful application of three smoothing, shining, rejuvenating hair products, I spent forty-five minutes with a blow dryer and a straightening iron until I had coiffed my shoulder-length hair into what I hoped was a go-to-hell style. I did use my styling time to consider why a so-called feminist like me was doing all this grooming and to wonder whether salt scrubs were banned at social work school. Did slathering myself in girly products mean I supported sexist thinking? I had no idea, but I did know that the early fall weather made this a good day for tight black pants, a padded bra, and a fitted sweater. Call it the new feminism.
    I was off to Home Depot to correct my painting mis-judgments. I would clean up my apartment, decorate with style, and charge into social work school with a passionate drive to save the world. And, most important, I would show Noah what he was missing out on.
     

TWO
     
    SASHAYING out of my apartment, down the stairs, out the door, and past the Evil Bachelor’s window, I sported what I hoped was a look of confidence and sophistication. There was no indication that Noah saw me—fortunately, since I caught my high-heeled boot on the bottom step and crashed into the peonies. Brushing the dirt off my pants, I thanked God that I was wearing black and continued to strut to the car. On the off chance that Noah was peeking out his window and eyeing me with regret, I gave a great hair flip and slid into the seat. I peeled out of our driveway and sped away, presumably off on an adventure of my own.
    The driver of a black Lexus SUV honked at me for daring to pull into his lane to make a right turn into the Home Depot parking lot. God forbid he let one car