Page 25 - WTP Vol. IX #9

bourbon. Perhaps she could write a poem about this.
But glad to be home finally, she opens a cabinet de- ciding to pour herself a nightcap, hoping to relax before going to sleep. She takes the glass of bourbon to the couch, thinking she can search for a movie. Of late, she has taken almost exclusively to watching documentaries. She used to enjoy feature films, but they have stopped giving her much escape; though now she sometimes worries she’s trying to fill a void inside her with information for which she has no use. After a few minutes of searching, she selects a documentary about animal trapping. She is not sure why this one, being someone who loves all creatures large and small, but she has seen most of the other documentaries before.
Just as she is about to get the movie started, however, the intercom buzzes. Perplexed, she stops it on pause wondering who this could be? Has Sally followed her, so worried about her she has traipsed all the way uptown? But on the intercom, Carmen, the doorman, surprises her by announcing Tanya has a visitor—a gentleman. Company is the last thing she wants, and she has a mind to have whoever it is sent away. But when Carmen says the gentleman identifies himself as a Mr. Clayborn, her mind flies in so many direc- tions, she feels she has no choice but to have him up. After nervously pacing in her foyer for a minute, she is gaping at the sight of Dave Clayborn, her college roommate from 20 years before. They kept in touch for some years after college, but now how many has it been? At least 10?
“Dave?” Tanya sputters.
Clayborn is wearing thin sweatpants and a warmup jacket, hardly dressed for winter. He holds a small suit- case like he is about to board a bus. “Well, aren’t you the sight?” Clayborn says freely. Still startled, Tanya feels a wave of self-consciousness bordering on nau- sea. She silently chastises herself for this but cannot fight it off. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Clayborn says, and, as she does so, Tanya’s mind reels.
Clayborn drops his suitcase on the floor in the small foyer. “Cold out there,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
“But you’re not even wearing a coat.”
Clayborn shrugs as his examining eyes take over to give Tanya’s prim, softened face, and the wave of her chestnut hair closer scrutiny, though he seems intent on not letting them get glued. “Christ, bud,” he says,
“No, she had not turned into an
exhibitionist, Tanya recalls thinking. This trait was not in her, as she was always more of an introvert, even when she was a little boy.”
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