She was drinking when she met Peter. He was freshly graduated and disheveled, as if the valedictorian had personally torn off his cap and shoved him into the real world.
Withdrawal from Adderall made him timid and charming. He bit at his thumbnail until it bled. Carolyn tore off a hangnail, pressed their fingers together, and declared them blood brothers. When he kissed her later, he asked, “Is this incest?”
No. Carolyn came from Catholics, Eastern Europeans, and the Midwest. Peter came from money, which is none of those things.
At first it was unnoticeable. They shared enough memories of late nineties radio hits and cable kids shows. The hem of his sweater came undone. She tore it off and made a Cat’s cradle; they made it through seven hand-offs. He asked her if she would give him a haircut and she pushed the hair off his forehead, considered his face, and said, “well, well.”
Then she made a flippant comment about Sallie Mae and Peter asked if that was her aunt. She still kissed him when the time came. They went outside for a cigarette and there was a ski lift tag attached to his zipper. Later, Carolyn would Google the make and model of his jacket. It cost twice a trip to the emergency room, uninsured.
—
Carolyn’s rent was paid by wages and night shifts, and shaking every last quarter out of the couch. Debt? She no longer answered out-of-state numbers.
Carolyn shrank at money the way an abused dog shrinks from a hand, despite craving human touch. There were too many crooked teeth in her mouth, too many meals of rice and onion and pepper and beans, too many used panties sold on eBay to satisfy Con Ed.
She paid for Peter’s drinks and his cab ride with the stubborn pride of the poor. She poured hydrogen peroxide on the hangnail so when her roommates found her crying she could hold up the bubbling wound. She didn’t call him back.
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