Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 7

by T. J. Clarke

BROOKLYN

Exams. Graduation. Coffee.

Life is simple now. Preparing for the Bar Exam returns me to a younger state of existence, back to Regents and SAT prep, when scores mattered more than knowledge. The mornings I spend in a classroom-corralled in with people I have not spoken to since 1L year- learning law from a video screen. Lunch is freedom. Then there are afternoon review sessions and practice exams. Not passing is not an option.

“Everyone is in the same boat,” Dree says while stirring the pasta sauce. She takes out a clean spoon and tastes it. “More wine.”

She is making dinner. Dree has the idea that she should only spend $10 per day on food for the months of June and July, so that she can pay for her half of a trip to Cape Cod in August with Jason.

“Why don’t you go to the Hamptons like everyone else in New York?” We are cooking in my kitchen. Dree didn’t factor into her budget the need for kitchen equipment, pots and pans. “The Jersey shore is full of lively attractions too.”

“It’ll be the first weekend after the Bar. We thought it should be somewhere special. And Jason really wants to show me around.” Dree has proved herself to be a dedicated cook of pasta sauces. Last week she made a bolognese that left my apartment smelling like bacon and thyme for days.

“Okay.” I’m disappointed that she didn’t pick up on my “Jersey Shore” joke.

Now that all of the ingredients are in the pot, she is still standing at the stove with a glass of wine in hand, stirring the sauce, leaning in to take in the smell, wiping her index finger across the wooden spoon to test the sauce’s consistency, and then licking her finger clean for a taste. Car horns and rumbling trucks on Atlantic Avenue drown out Dinah Washington playing on my laptop’s speakers. My air conditioner is broken.

Dree is busy filling a second pot with water for the pasta. There are corn breads baking in the oven. The back of her gray t-shirt is damp with sweat. She is wearing an apron but no bra. Her hair is in a loose ponytail that threatens to escape its elastic at any moment. I want to taste the sweat on the back of her neck.

“How are you such a messy cook?” My kitchen has seen better days. The stove top is spattered with dried bits of tomato sauce and diced onions. In the middle of the floor is the garbage can. I take out more paper towels from under the sink to replace the empty roll. The sink is full of half-used bowls and spoons. I pick my knife out of the mess and wash it.

“Stop! I’ll clean up later.” It’s true. The two occasions Dree has made dinner here, she has yet to leave me with a dirty kitchen to clean up afterward. “Make yourself a drink and sit down.” Dree has already taken the gin out of the freezer and is cutting up more lime wedges. She hands me the glass and pushes me toward the dining table. “Get out of my kitchen.”

The defunct air conditioner unit still sits on my window ledge. I shout out to Dree. “Remind me to call my landlord about the AC.” The heat mellows the edge of my anxiety, add the gin and tonic and I stop worrying how I will pay rent in three months. That’s when the student loan money runs out.

T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.