Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman Read Free Book Online

asks.
    “It’s when the terrifying shit really begins,” Amanda says.
    “What you need is a
quieter
life,” James says. “So you can process all the craziness.”
    “Maybe you should move to Berkeley,” Amanda says. “Come be our neighbor.”
    “I’d love to,” I say. “But there’s a whole city to conquer over there. San Francisco is trying to kick my ass, and I can’t let it get the better of me.”
    A screen door slams in a neighboring yard and a woman calls to someone to bring her a sweater. Amanda starts humming what sounds like an M. Ward song. James pats her foot in three–four time. I look out at the fig tree, heavy with fruit, and I try to imagine a life in which monogamy didn’t feel like a locked cell in which I always start wishing my cell mate would get released early for good behavior.
    “You guys are so lucky,” I say. “You have each other and you want each other.”
    “It’s true,” Amanda says. “We’re lucky, but you know it’s not perfect. We’re both in the same department. We’re competing for funding, and we’re always busy and stressed out at the same time.”
    “Yeah, but at least you understand each other’s work. You can read each other’s papers.”
    “Uh-huh,” James says. “Try sleeping next to the person who just correctly informed you that your entire thesis topic is flawed and untenable and you’ve just wasted two whole years of research.”
    “So what you’re saying is, I should give Professor Fursten a call?” I stand up and start clearing dishes.
    “Don’t do that,” James tells me. “We’ll do it. You’re in a delicate condition.”
    “Oh don’t, that’s awful,” Amanda says, smiling at me apologetically.
    When it’s time to leave, they stand on the front porch and wave goodbye.
    “There she goes,” Amanda says. “See you soon.”
    “Come back bearing stories,” James calls after me.
    —
    Back in the city, I stop in at the Common Room. Luke is roasting, pouring beans from a bucket into the hopper of the Probat.
    “What’s cooking?” I ask him.
    “Fucking decaf,” he says. “I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to tell you: I think this baby is the best thing that could have happened to us.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Think about it,” he says. “I pulled out hundreds of times when we were together, and it worked fine. Then the one time we have sex after the breakup, and
bam
”—he slams his fist into his palm—“we make a kid.”
    “All that means,” I say, “is that we’re both fertile.”
    “No, no.” He turns back to the roaster, pulls out the trier, holds it under his nose, and smells the beans. They’re the color of wet sand. He puts it back. “This baby means more than that. It’s a sign that we’re supposed to be together.”
    “But I’m not keeping it,” I say.
    “That’s even more reason to be together. An abortion is a big deal. I want to be there for you, in whatever way I can.”
    “Well, right now I’d love a Gibraltar.”
    He turns down the gas on the roaster and goes behind the bar. I take a seat at a nearby table. All around me, people are sitting with coffee cups, staring into laptop screens. The girl at the table in front of me has a sticker of a peach stuck over her Apple logo. The guy to my left is working on a Word file titled
Start-Up: A Memoir.
    “Do I know you?” he says when he sees me looking. He has black curly hair and straight white American teeth.
    “No,” I say, “I just thought I’d save you some time by telling you not to bother writing that memoir. Nobody reads books anymore.”
    “This isn’t a book,” he says. “It’s my senior thesis.” He leans back in his chair. “So what’s that accent? New Zealand?”
    When Luke comes back, he puts the drink on the table and walks away. I take it and follow him over to the roaster. He checks on the beans again, then pushes a lever. The beans shower out of the drum and into the cooling tray.
    “Thanks for