In the law school library, harassed by coffee headaches and razor sharp paper edges, Roz would occasionally drift into a remembered scent–frangipani and pineapple rind, some rotting garbage amid the sweet–and every sense in her would mourn the end of her travels. Yet she recoiled when, studying on her boyfriend’s leather sofa instead of in her carrel, she received word from that other place. Her elbow jutted out to a point. She held the phone’s receiver away from her skin.
A few summers ago she had gone to Italy with a guy and instead of coming back with him seven days later, she’d used credit cards to turn that single European week into nearly a year of solo globe-trotting. Glistening metallic, the cards worked alchemy, and by the time she got to Thailand, she felt so grand and free that instead of letting boys pay for her, she paid for them with cash advances.
She could tell him she was staying with John. They weren’t living together, not quite, but Roz had her calls forwarded.
“I told you I study to be lawyer one time, right? I didn’t finish. In America it’s one good job, but for me, some other business is better.
“Well, um…OK. Do you have a car? Should I come to pick you up?”
After she hung up the phone the electric hum of city silence descended around her. Again, she scrutinized the living room of her half home–the ample laps and thick surfaces, the sound system, twinkling slyly, that John bought all in a piece, choosing without her. Although her parents approved of him, when he moved from Hyde Park to a loft condo on the north side and asked her to come with him without a diamond, they balked. “Honey, can’t you just stay at his place all the time and keep your studio and not tell me?” her mom said. “After all, we’re paying your rent.” Every month, her father wrote the amount down in a ledger where it sat, accruing interest. Thumbing through John’s wallet and checkbook and rifling his desktop, Roz had taken account. He had $8,000 invested in lifestyle. That wouldn’t even cover my Citibank debt, she had thought at the time. She knew that this Ghan, or Guy or Hot or Piv or anyone she’d met in Thailand or Bali or Burma, for that matter, would take one look at this condo and think she was rich. The hard corner of Business Law: Principles & Cases pressed against her ribs. They’d think they knew something about her. She had never known much about Ghan.
