The Secret Lives of Married Women by Elissa Wald Read Free Book Online Page A

share the cab.”
    “There are plenty of cabs. Get your own.”
    “Come on. I’ll have the guy drop you off first. I swear I won’t try to come in.”
    “You live uptown, and I’m on the lower east side,” I said. “It makes no sense.”
    I got into the back of the taxi and tried to pull the door shut behind me. Bryce held it and clambered in after me. Hastily, I slid across the seat, opened the other door and let myself out. Bryce followed while the driver cursed in his native language.
    Suddenly Stas materialized between us. “Enough,” he said to Bryce. His face was very pale and bathed in a light sweat. He was swaying on his feet, as if the past few hours hadn’t sobered him at all. “This is enough. Leave her alone.”
    Bryce burst out laughing. “Stas, you madman, where the fuck did you come from? Where’s your white fucking horse? Take it from me, my young friend—this fair maiden doesn’t need your help.”
    “Enough, sir,” Stas repeated. “This is not proper conduct for a man in your position.”
    While Bryce bellowed with mirth, I got back into the cab. The driver muttered with relief as I told him my address. As we pulled away from the curb, I couldn’t resist a glance through the rear windshield. Bryce had thrown an arm around Stas and was jostling him toward yet another bar.
    * * *
    Had I been any younger, Bryce would have been a perfect candidate for my emotional investment: married (for the third time) with children, prone to cocaine and alcohol abuse, just this side of sociopathic. But as it was, I was making myself go out on dates with ostensibly reasonable prospects: men I met at parties or through friends or over the internet. The next morning, I’d entertain the office with the discouraging things they’d said or done. I’d tell everyone that this or that man hated cats, wore spiced cologne, was rude to the waitress. I’d report that he answered his cell phone during dinner, or that when we reached his car, he opened his own door first.
    “Why don’t you just marry Stas?” Bryce would joke in front of everyone. “He’s crazy about you and he’s got a good job.”
    Stas never reacted to these statements, never voiced agreement or denial or resentment or chagrin. His expression did not change as he studied his computer screen or stripped a modem for parts.
    “Isn’t that right, Stas?” Bryce would press.
    “Right,” he’d say absently, as if tossing a dog a bone so it would go away.
    I’d been working at Kaiser Tech for nearly a year when my home computer crashed and Stas came over to fix it. This meant taking a series of trains and buses all the way from Inwood to the lower east side on his first day off in three weeks. Though he had walked me home from the office many times before, he’d never been inside my building. This was partly because I didn’t want to lead him on, and partly because I was pained by the state of my apartment.
    I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, and everything in it was falling apart. The kitchen faucet sprayed rivulets in all directions. The bathroom door scraped hard against the floor and the lock refused to catch. The light fixture above my bed had a burned-out bulb that seemed welded into its socket. The built-in ladder to my loft bed had a broken bottom rung.
    Stas installed a program that would defragment my hard drive and get rid of its viruses. “Just let it run,” he told me. “Don’t touch anything for half an hour. I have a few things to do but I will come back when it is finished.”
    I promised not to touch the computer while he was gone. I was cleaning out the bedroom closet anyway, a project I’d started so I wouldn’t be in his way. For this reason, I heard but did not see him when he walked back in, and for the next hour or so I managed to be unaware that he was fixing everything in my apartment.
    “Stas,” I said in amazement when, along with my restored computer, he showed me the working light and faucet and ladder