Anio Szado Read Online Free PDF Page B

partner.”
    “When?”
    “Eventually.”
    “Oh,
eventually
. Well, that makes everything okay.” He twirled the cap from the whisky bottle on the table. “You said your first paycheck could be a while. How long is a while?”
    “I have to prove myself. That’s how it works. Besides the regular work, you’ve got to bring in clients and commissions and help make the studio a success.”
    “Goddamn it, Mig. There are loads of jobs for girls now. Good regular jobs, nine to five, punch the clock and cash the honest-to-goodness check.”
    “Not in fashion. If you’re trying to make a name for yourself it can be kind of all or nothing.”
    Leo poured another whisky and downed it, then went to the shotgun kitchen and came back holding my note. He read aloud: “ ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get home tonight.’ Notice something? You called this place your home.” He flicked the paper close to my nose. When I didn’t flinch, he slumped onto the couch and drank. “That’s fine,” he said. “Stay as long as you want. But you’re going to have to makean actual wage—
eventually
—or start digging into Papa’s treasure trove.”
    “You have a mean way with words.”
    “I’m just telling you straight. I can’t keep us in mink on my own.”
    “I’ll get my own place.” How could I, though? I couldn’t chip away at my inheritance. I had promised myself (typed it up like a contract, signed it, and filed it away) that I’d use that money to start my own design studio one day. Any other use would “expressly constitute and represent” notice that I had given up on my dream—and on Papa’s hopes for me.
    “Nah, stay. It’s not so bad having you here. Besides, Mother would kill me.” He opened a drawer in the side table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo. After flicking the lighter and pulling smoke into his lungs, he let his shoulders relax. His head tipped back against the fraying brocade. He spoke through smoke rings. “At least you haven’t asked me where I was last night.”
    “Where were you?”
    “Leaving everything but my body on the poker table.” He emptied his lungs with a forceful sigh.
    “I can get a second job to help with the rent. I can probably wait tables for Uncle Yannick.”
    “You think so? Because I’m thinking an ‘all or nothing’ job is ‘all or nothing,’ if you know what I mean. Put it this way. If you’re ever not here when I get home, I’ll know exactly where you are. And I get home very, very late sometimes.” He picked up the wine bottle and filled my glass. By the time we left for the Alliance, I was woozy.
    As I’m a tiny bit woozy now. But mustn’t nap in the airport, much as I would like to. A slack, snoring maw is not quite oh-so-Mignonne-NYC. I could catch a cab home, sleep. Or return to the studio, back to the fray.
    Or give myself over to waiting, stranded by rain: unreachable, not at work, not at home, not away. Think through my talk for Expo. Inspiration is like reimagining a garment. Parse the elements, recut the pieces, use from the past what resonates today. There’s no backstitching in stories. Nothing can be locked in place.
    “Tell me a good one, Miggy.” That’s what Leo used to say. “Use your noodle and lay on the sauce. Can’t remember? Make it up. Can’t know? Don’t tell me so. Borrow someone else’s story if you don’t like your own.”

6

    Consuelo starts awake. The days are like this now: either she is all on, a whirlwind, or she is nodding asleep. Once upon a time, she could not have imagined growing sleepy in an airport. Airports were places of drama: of passionate reunion, of desperate waiting for news, of fears so acute they poisoned her veins and made her faint. She had been in her prime then. In her thirties—for love, not age, is the measure of a woman’s prime.
    Love and passion—and, it follows then, fear.
    There is the problem. She has nothing to lose anymore, nothing to fear. So little to