He rounded Thompson Avenue, passing the bookstore where his latest novel occupied the window. He allowed the smallest flicker of pride before picking up speed. How far he’d come from the poor kid whose life was hand-me-down clothes and secondhand books.
He reached Washington Square Park ready to do a complete loop. Nick’s runs used to consist of random thoughts about his characters and plot points. The beauty of being a writer was you could work anywhere anytime. One of the best scenes he’d ever written was during a tax audit. Now, his mind lacked the spark required to conjure creativity. He emerged from the park, slowing his pace until he reached the glass door of The Ole Time Floral shop with its annoying wreath of greenery and bells that signaled his arrival.
“A white rose, please,” he said to the florist, who was already reaching into the barrel to retrieve the item.
“You know, dear, its romantic how you buy her a rose every day, but I’m sure she’d be more impressed with a whole bouquet at once.”
Nick frowned. “I don’t want to impress her. I just want her to know I’m there.”
The lady arched a bushy brow, waiting for further explanation, but Nick did not intend to satisfy her unsolicited curiosity. He shoved the money at her and clutched the thorny bud in his hand. She no longer asked if he wanted it wrapped with a sprig of greenery.
He ran an additional mile until he reached the tranquil snow-covered grounds behind an ornate metal gate on Sullivan Street. It looked like a park with its lush landscape of willow trees and benches, but the stone angels, marble pillars, and simple markers jutting from the ground gave away its identity.
He fell to his knees, the crunch of fresh snow against hard earth disturbing the serenity. Nick gulped in the cold desolate air, reading her gravestone for the thousandth time, even though every curl of the fancy lettering chiseled on the surface was already etched into his brain. He’d become a creature of habit, and the repetition of every act provided a strange comfort. He bowed his head, joined his hands together, and begged in silence for forgiveness that would never come.
An hour later, showered and freshly dressed, he walked through the heavy wooden doors of the old church on Grand, the location of his second daily errand. Nick originally chose the ten a.m. timeframe to avoid crowds. It was flawed logic, bordering on reckless naiveté since the term “avoid crowds” was a fool’s ambition in this city. Although there weren’t any stockbrokers or executives, plenty of actors, singers, and housewives packed the large room. They all chatted amicably while drinking percolated coffee, which Nick, a coffee connoisseur, admitted was the best he’d ever had.
He sat in the uncomfortable metal chair, waiting for the meeting to come to order. When the time came, Nick spoke clearly and honestly.
“I’m Nick Dorsey, and I am a meth addict. It’s been eighteen months, two weeks, and three days since my last fix.” He talked about his addiction until his three minutes of indulgent introspection were up and his Styrofoam cup runneth empty.
He arrived back at the Bleecker Street loft with all his errands accomplished, but no sense of accomplishment for it. Gaping at his keyboard, a fresh cup of caffeine in his hand and a stifling lack of imagination, he sat down.
Wanting to alleviate the harsh glare of the blank page, he clicked on the keyboard in quick snapping strokes. The rain fell in thick sheets as if the sky weighed in on Max’s decision.
Shit.
Did he actually start the fucking book with a weather report? The greats—George Orwell, Charles Dickens, or Dr. Seuss were capable of such openings, but Nick Dorsey was not. He hit the backspace, erasing every individual character with a scorning strike. He wondered what other words could describe rain. He walked over to the large bookshelf that spanned an entire wall. As it turned out, Webster’s had thirty-two words for precipitation from the descriptive drencher to the very simple wet stuff.
He slammed the book shut, tired of his pathetic attempts at procrastination.
He didn’t mind the timid knock at nine p.m., though. That was a welcome break from the unrelenting flutter of the cursor.
Sandwich girl was here and right on time.
He opened the door, and there she stood as she had almost every night for the past year since he’d discovered the corner deli delivered. The tall, thin girl with raven hair offered a nervous smile. He often speculated on the length of her hair. She always wore it in a tightly coiled bun except for the few loose strands that framed her face.
When her smile widened just right, it would create the slightest dimple on her left cheek. As much as he enjoyed the appearance of the dimple, what struck him the most was her accent. He’d heard all kinds of Asian accents, but never one as lyrical as hers with each simple word drawn out softly, a seductive hum as it left her lips. Her loose trench coat, too mild for this weather, slipped off one shoulder as she inched her knapsack higher on the other.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully, handing him the brown paper bag that contained his turkey and Swiss on whole wheat.
“Hiya, Sandwich Girl.” It was their usual greeting. No names—the time for civilized introductions had passed long ago.
He fished a twenty from his wallet. She shoved her hand in her pocket searching for change.
“Keep it,” he said.
“Thank you. That’s very generous.”
Why they went through the same motions, he didn’t know, except she was polite and unassuming, and he found a certain comfort in the repetition. “Don’t mention it.”
Her head began shifting downward, but she paused and lifted her gaze to meet his. In the beginning, the shy girl would never look him in the face, throwing the bag at him and taking off before he yelled after her that he had yet to pay. Then she’d slowly shuffle back, her head down, holding out her trembling hand. Now, they held actual conversation between them, and although it lacked any depth, those few minutes became the most enjoyable part of his scheduled day.
“It’s getting nicer outside. I think spring will arrive early this year,” she said.
“Is that so?” Maybe she believed Nick never went out, and her weather reports were a necessary service to give him insight into the subtle climactic shifts of his own environment. Or maybe she was just making small talk.
“Yes, but it might rain.” She dropped her voice as if conveying a secret. “I think it will rain actually.”
“Will it be a soaker, a mist, or a monsoon?” he asked, happy to apply the seldom-used words to his vernacular. The thesaurus hadn’t been a waste of time.
She clutched her jacket around her. “Definitely a drencher. I don’t think we have to worry about monsoons on this side of the world.”
“Your forecasts have never been accurate…not once.”
She bit her lower lip, her expression thoughtful. “Really?”
“Nope. But in case you’re right, do you have an umbrella?”
“I don’t have far to go.”
“Wait here.” He set the bag on a console table and grabbed an umbrella from the hall closet. “Take this.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“You can return it tomorrow.” He held it out to her until she gripped her fingers around it.
“Thank you.”
“Be safe.”
She’d rewarded him with a brilliant, dimple-inducing smile the first time he’d said that, and it became his customary farewell to her in the days that followed. The smile never disappointed.
“Good-night.”
“Night,”