Veronica Vanishing

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She’s a cute, slightly waifish dirty blonde. I don’t know her name. Let’s call her… “Veronica.” She used to work at the Dominick’s Finer Foods over on Chicago Avenue. Maybe she still does. Maybe she avoids me whenever I shop there. It’s a big store and I’m usually zeroed in on all the shelved comestibles for sale. Welp, turns out Veronica’s a neighbor of mine. Couldn’t tell you which floor. (There are twelve.) Gimmie a break, I’ve met less than half the people who live on my floor, let alone whoever lives in the rest of the building. And those few I do kinda-sorta know, I don’t know any of them by name. Either way, most don’t smile or say hello. Maybe it’s me. The way I look. Maybe it’s my deodorant—or lack thereof. Could be it’s my natural musk. You know, like I have repellant pheromones or something. Even mosquitos avoid me. I dunno. Should I ask? I could ask, sure. But then all the expressionless folk who tend to look straight through me as they pass on the sidewalk, or on the stairs, or in the lobby, they might, instead, gape at me in horror. Would that be better? Welp, it’d be something. Ah, but lest we forget: This is city life, where, more oft than not, “familiarity breeds contempt.” But so Veronica: She couldn’t be older than twenty-fiveish. She lives here with her boyfriend (unless he’s her husband) who I know from the Subway sandwich shop just down the block from the Dominick’s Finer Foods on Chicago Avenue. He’s always been very friendly to me (and of course he’s friendly, look who he gets to snuggle up to every night); not Veronica, though. She always eyes me with suspicion, if she eyes me at all. We’ve passed each other many times out on the sidewalk, but she rarely takes note of me—or, for that matter, anybody else. Seems her mind, at least whenever she’s on her way to wherever, is elsewhere. Welp, today? In the laundry room? The second time I tried to dry my clothes? The effing machine refused to accept my coins. (And I tell ya—refusal? That’s really the story of my life.) The slider thingy was jammed. So I went back up to my apartment for a tool, and, upon my return, I encountered Veronica—who was stuffing her clothes into a washing machine. “You might not want to do that,” I cautioned, and then explained why. I’d tried both drying machines and both were jammed with too many effing quarters. She thanked me and gathered up her clothes (as she had no bag or basket) and cursed all of the machines for being so shitty. Then she left. Following several futile efforts at futzing with the coin slider thingy, I broke my tool (a flathead screwdriver). And, just in time to hear me swear, Veronica returned with her clothes heap. She dumped her laundry back into a washer and, to my bewildered expression, she replied, “Locked myself out.” Welp, as a devout adherent of the Golden Rule, I offered the use of my phone. She accepted. [Like most folks way back then, I only had a landline.] We stepped into the elevator and the second the doors slid shut she moved toward me and I took her in my arms. We made out with fierce intensity. When the elevator stopped on my floor and its doors slid open I took her by the hand and we ran down the hall. All the way, she giggled mischievously. Welp, maybe it wasn’t exactly a giggle. Whatever it was, it was mischievous. Welp, mischievous in nature. Mischievous to my ears, anyways. Ok, ok, maybe a little sinister. I dunno. Doesn’t matter. We stripped each other and coupled on the small round rug where I keep my outdoor shoes. Neither of us cared that the door was flung wide open. Nearly as soon as she climaxed (it didn’t take long) she withdrew from me and cooly, detachedly, almost mechanically, donned her clothes—as if nothing untoward had just happened. And then she asked, in an offhanded way, “Where’s the phone?” I dug my cordless up from under a pile of cushions on my futon. She called her boyfriend at the sandwich shop, told him she was locked out, and then she hung up. She looked at my feet and mumbled, “Thanks.” After that, she swept away. Now, please believe me, all of this—it’s God’s Honest Truth… save for the part about making out and having sex. In sooth, Veronica took no more than two very short steps into my apartment. Just as soon as she returned the phone to me, she backed through my doorway and vanished. I couldn’t even say for sure that she’d thanked me. Anyways, I called the maintenance guy about the bum dryers. 
23 January 2001

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