The Artist and I walk from the office toward the A/C/E exchanging pleasantries. As we find seats on a mostly empty C, he asks what I’m doing going downtown.
“I live downtown. Remember? I moved two weeks ago.”
“Oh. Right,” he mumbles, and quickly shakes his head in the short, jerky way I’ve become accustomed to. And he feels badly, as per usual, that he’s forgotten. Because knowing the Artist, he didn’t forget. He just happened to forget.
“So how’s the new roommate?”
“Good.”
“Better than the old one?”
“Well, yes. She is everything I wanted in a roommate.”
“Heh. What’s that,” he asks, bracing himself.
“You know, for example, I come home and watch tv. And sometimes then she comes home. And then one of us will say, ‘You want sushi?’ and the other says ‘Yeah, I want sushi.’ So we order some sushi. Maybe one of us complains about work. I’ve been known to tell a joke. She’ll laugh.”
The Artist chuckles. “Sounds good.”
I nod slowly, resolutely.
“Sushi. Yeah. Sounds like everything anyone could want in a roommate.” And with that, The Artist bounded head-first off the train, through the doors, nearly forgetting he needed to get off at 14th Street.
