Waiting for Wednesday

was on Brooklyn Bridge, looking back at the
skyline of Manhattan, which was at once familiar and alien. Frieda thought of her own
narrow little house, surrounded by a network of small streets. There, she knew when a
shop’s shutters had been newly painted, or a plane tree had been pruned. She
thought she could have found her way blind to her front door. Suddenly she felt almost
homesick and could barely comprehend the instinct that had sent her there.
    By seven o’clock she was in
Sandy’s neighbourhood, but she hesitated to wake him yet. The day was cool and
cloudy, with a blustery wind that threatened rain. Even the air smelt different there.
She made her way up the street to a small café, where she ordered a coffee, taking it to
one of the metal tables by the window that looked out on to the street. Shewas cold, tired and full of a thick and mysterious trouble. She
couldn’t work out if this came from the events of the past weeks, or from being
there, of being about to see Sandy again. She had missed him so, yet now she
couldn’t imagine seeing him. What would they say to each other and what could
possibly match the intensity of their separation? It occurred to her, with a force that
made her flinch, as if she’d been hit hard in the stomach and winded, that perhaps
she had come to end things with Sandy. Once the thought had occurred to her, it settled
like lead in her stomach. Was that it, then?
    The little room filled up with people.
Outside, it began to drizzle, spattering the window so the shapes in the street outside
wavered and blurred. She felt far from herself – there but not there, alone in a teeming
city, invisible. The grey sky made her feel as if she was under water; the journey made
time into a kaleidoscope. Maybe she should leave before anything happened, pretend she
had never been there.
    Sandy, walking past the deli on his way
back from the bakery on the corner where he always bought freshly baked rolls for
breakfast, glanced briefly at the window of the café, then away again. But with a corner
of his vision he had caught sight of a face that reminded him of someone – and he looked
back again, and through the raindrops on the glass he saw her. She was sitting with her
chin resting in one hand, gazing straight ahead. For a moment, he wondered if he was
dreaming. Then, as if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned her head. Their eyes
met. She gave the smallest smile, drained her coffee, stood up and left the café,
emerging on to the street. He saw how she still limped; how tired she looked. His heart
turned over. She had a leather satchel slung over her shoulder, but no other
luggage.
    ‘Christ. What are you doing
here?’
    ‘I’ve come to see you,
obviously.’
    ‘Christ,’ he repeated.
    ‘I was about to call you. I
didn’t want to wake you.’
    ‘You know me.’ He rubbed his
unshaven cheek and stared at her. ‘Early riser. What time is it for
you?’
    ‘I don’t know. No time.
Now.’
    ‘So you’ve just been sitting
here, waiting?’
    ‘Yes. What’s in the
bag?’
    ‘Breakfast. Do you want
some?’
    ‘That would be nice.’
    ‘But, Frieda –’
    ‘What? Is there some other woman in
your flat?’
    Sandy gave a shaky laugh. ‘No. No
other woman in my flat just now.’
    He untied the belt of her raincoat and took
it off her, hanging it on the hook beside his own coat. She liked the way he took such
care. He unzipped her boots and took them off, pairing them against the wall. He led her
to his bedroom and closed the thin brown curtains, so the light became dim and murky.
The window was slightly open and she could hear the sounds of the street; the day
beginning. Her body felt soft and slack – desire and fatigue and dread plaited loosely
together until she couldn’t tell them apart. He peeled off her clothes and folded
them, putting them on the wooden chair, then unclasped the thin necklace she was wearing
and trickled it on to the windowsill. He ran his fingers over her scars, over her tired,
stale, jetlagged body. All the while she looked at him steadily, almost curiously, as if
she was making up her mind about something. He wanted to close his eyes to her scrutiny,
but couldn’t.
    Later, she had a shower while he made her
coffee, strong and hot, and she drank it in bed with the thin sheet pulled over her.
    ‘Why did you suddenly decide to
come?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘When are you here until?’
    ‘Tomorrow