Hugh exhaled a wisp into the brisk November air. He took a look around and after another moment flicked his long-extinguished cigarette butt into a shallow puddle, steeled himself, and turned to reenter the building. He had finished the smoke a couple of minutes ago, but wasn’t ready to face the laundromat again. It had been a challenging morning. When tempers threatened to flare on the topic of fabric softener, Hugh excused himself. Can’t argue if we’re not in the same room, he thought.

Elise was perched, legs crossed, on the best (i.e., largest, least in the way) table in the room. It was an effective, if somewhat unethical, strategy for securing the table for her own folding needs during the last 20 minutes of her dry cycle. She was reading some highbrow collection of short stories. Hugh knew she was genuinely engrossed, but also knew that the degree to which her facial expressions demonstrated this was an act, an extension of her laundry table land-grab. In Berkeley, one doesn’t disturb people reading Robinson. Especially not beautiful, waify nymphs apparently experiencing that transcendent prose for the first time. He loved this skill of hers: the way she got precisely what she wanted through subtle, thorough manipulation.

When she looked up and saw him watching her, she smiled, pleased with herself. Hugh never felt his heart beat as intensely as when she smiled at him.

“I got it, I got it,” she said with the singsong cadence of victory.

“I see that. Where’s the little Chinese lady? You must have hidden her body well, I didn’t notice her leave,” he said.

She looked up at him fiendishly. “I’ll never tell.” That smile again.

Hugh leaned down, offering a chaste kiss of reward, but she frowned at his approach. “I hate when you smoke during the daytime. It’s very nineties, you know.”

“The daylight part or smoking in general?” Hugh asked, his face still close to hers. She turned away, granting him access to only her cheek.

“I’m not sure, actually. Maybe in general. I’ll let you know when I decide.”

This morning they had already butted heads about hot sauce, lean proteins, Hugh’s sister’s boyfriend, Hugh’s sister, public education, and drones. The severity of each altercation varied in degree, but still. That’s a lot of arguing before 11:30 on a Sunday.

After what she overdramatically felt was a mouse infestation, our heroine moves back to Brooklyn from boisterous St. Mark’s Place. And while always thinking of herself as a ‘Brooklyn person,’ some Manhattan-derived affectations have settled in her during the seven years as a Manhattanite. The most lasting have to do with transportation: a) She eschews the subway whenever possible (she could walk or cheaply taxi everywhere, you see), and b) her fear of requesting taxis take her to Brooklyn returns from her early experiences with that. When these attitudes are freshest, our heroine finds herself in an Uber minivan, returning to her tony brownstone block, laden with several parcels from Whole Foods (another shameful Manhattan habit). The following is an account of that ride.

Heroine: Hey, how are you? I need to go to Wyckoff and Hoyt in Brooklyn. The Manhattan Bridge is usually best, I think.

Uber driver (UD) with unspecified accent that betrays that E is for sure an SL: Yes, of course. Tell me where to go.

Heroine, distractedly pulling out her phone to cycle through the social media channels she reviewed only minutes ago: Great.

The van enters the grand archway of the Manhattan Bridge.

UD: Excuse me, can I ask? My English is not so great. What is… uhn-uhl?

Heroine, looking up first at UD and then the majestic lower Manhattan skyline receding behind her: I’m sorry, what?

UD: This word, uhn-uhl. What is it?

Heroine: I’m sorry, I don’t know what word you’re saying.

UD: Uhn-uhl. It is spelling A-N-A-L.

Our heroine gasps and takes note of her precarious position in a moving vehicle with a stranger on a major metropolitan thoroughfare that is also a bridge.

Heroine: Um. Uh.

UD: So, you know this word?

Heroine, staring at driver and committing his side profile/visible facial features to memory: Well, okay. Yes. But I mean, there are a couple of meanings.

UD, his tone curious and frustrated with his ignorance of the matter: Like what? What is the meaning?

Heroine, more convinced of UD’s sincerity: Well, okay. So, one meaning is, like, say if a person is just very, very neat and clean. Like, maybe even so much that it’s annoying.

UD, still confused: Okay.

Heroine, now earnestly feeling for the guy as no one likes to be in the dark: Okay, so the other meaning is. Well, it’s, well, it’s anything to do with, you know, your butt.

UD, rapidly: MY BUTT?

Heroine, placatingly: Oh, well. I mean. Anyone’s butt.

UD, mortified, laughing nervously: Oh. Wow.

Heroine: Yup.

UD, still embarrassed, still laughing nervously: I am just divorcing and now dating. This lady on Facebook, she asks me, ‘Do you like uhn-uhl?’

Heroine: Ohh. That is nice of her to ask, I guess.

The remaining 9 minutes of the car ride are spent in complete silence. Upon arriving in front of our heroine’s brownstone, UD: Uh, thank you for the, uh, information.

Heroine: Oh, yeah. Sure. Well. Hey, good luck with that lady.

end scene