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on his head. He’s holding a mop
staring at me blankly, as if the only thing he has to protect himself with is
that mop and a giant ring of jangling keys.
    I’m glad I have my
track suit on so I can get out here. “Nope, just looking around at the
pictures.”
    “I’m about to lock up,”
he instructs still somewhat curious at the loitering.
    “Yep, headed out now. Thanks,”
I say already walking towards the entrance.

7
     
     
    shay
    I unfold the note taped
to my apartment door: Made tuna salad and brownies. Come up to eat when you
get back—if you can stand the mess. J.
    I unlock my door and
step in just far enough to drop my bag and head up to Jenny’s.
    The rushed noises of
returning from spring break can be heard coming from behind the closed doors in
the hallway as I walk past them.
    As I get to the top of
the flight of stairs I prepare myself for the clutter in her apartment, knowing
that for her it’s organized chaos, and lightly knock.
    “Door’s open!” she
calls over sounds coming from inside.
    “Hey Jenny. Thanks for
the invite,” I say, looking at her effort of cleaning up, and actually it looks
pretty good. I can see she’s tried to mimic my apartment a little and it
flatters me, especially when everything else between us has always had me on
the needing side. This morning she had stayed as long as she could in my lab. Something
I didn’t even expect and was beyond grateful for, but after we got specimens
checked in she had to get home and have a head start on things for classes to
resume, having just gotten back a couple of days before me. I’m sure she’s been
working all afternoon. Her futon is covered with folded, washed clothes and all
of the dishes are stacked in a strainer beside the sink, even her old
university newspapers that she collects each one of and are normally lying
about everywhere like they’re wallpapering the floor, that she swears one day
she’ll have the time to read, are stacked in a heap the height of a chair.
    The sound of the dryer
door slams shut from around the bathroom door. “Would you want to grab the red
bowl from the refrigerator?” She leans out and smiles as she finishes up with a
load of laundry, knowing I’ll be impressed with her effort.
    “Sure. Looks great in
here,” I say, taking it out and removing the plastic wrap off of the top. She
already has plates and a loaf of wheat bread sitting on the small, old formica
table, a prized possession that used to sit in her family’s basement, that her papa,
nonno, and uncles would play craps at. She always says that Italians have these
great, three-story houses, but they live in the basements. I look past the sink
and see green grapes sitting wet in a colander. I grab a bowl from the cupboard
and finish shaking them, dumping them into it.
    “Hey,” she comes from around
the corner. “How’d it go? You get everything done on your to do list?” She
grabs two sodas from the door of the refrigerator and sits one in front of me.
    “I did. Thank God. And
not a moment too soon—Richards was never too far off after you left. Thanks
again for helping out this morning.” I help myself to opening the bread,
passing each of us two slices. “You’ve been a life saver and now you’re feeding
me,” I say almost laughing.
    “We have to stick
together around here,” she grins, spooning tuna salad out.
    It was the best tuna
salad I’ve ever eaten. And I ended up eating two sandwiches as we laughed and
talked about her eventful visit home with her brothers and sisters. Coming from
a big Italian family she wouldn’t have any excuse not to be able to cook and
lunch today proved that, right down to the brownies; that tasted like I bit
heaven doused in chocolate.
    “Hey Jenny,” I call
from washing our dishes as she grabs the last load of towels out to be folded.
“Do you think I could look through your newspapers fast?” We both had a full
day ahead of us tomorrow and I didn’t want to hang around too