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Nadia
It was so late by the time I reached my subway stop in Queens that only service industry workers were still on the train. A parade of maids, waiters, and line cooks leaving the city that never sleeps for the lower rent apartments of the outer boroughs.
My commute wasn’t done yet, though. Living near a subway station wasn’t a luxury I could afford, so I had to walk another five blocks to my apartment building. It wasn’t the best neighborhood. It’s not like I had much of a choice. Tonight was better than most; there was only one shady-looking guy across the street halfway home, who stopped digging through trash to stare at me as I walked along the opposite sidewalk.
Thankfully all he did was watch, but I still kept a tight grip on the pepper spray in my bag all the way home.
Home wasn’t the right word. A home was a place you felt like you belonged, the safe haven where you retreated at the end of a long day. My apartment was more of a dwelling. The place where I spent six and a half hours sleeping each night, and as little other time as possible. It was a cramped two-bedroom split among four of us, two in each bedroom. My roommates, who I’d met on Craigslist six months ago, were all asleep. The kitchen was still a mess even though it was Carla’s week to clean it; dishes were piled in the sink and a rank, pungent smell wafted from the overflowing trash can.
I hated coming back here. But again, it’s not like I had much of a choice.
I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and then slipped into the room I shared with Carla. She was a maid who worked three jobs, and I’d only spoken four or five complete sentences to her since I moved in. Such was the life of two people who were always at work, and whose schedules only ever crossed when we were sleeping.
But Carla wasn’t alone tonight. She was on her bed to the right, but a lump of human occupied my bed on the other side of the room. Biting down my anger, I shook the lump.
“Get out.”
The person—a man in his 20s—groaned. “Huh?”
“This is my bed. You’re in my bed. Get the fuck out of my bed.”
Carla rolled over on her bed and feigned apology. “Nadia! It is you! I thought you were out tonight.”
Out tonight. Meaning hooking up with a guy. Putting aside the annoying subtext of her accusation, I was pissed that she thought my absence meant anyone was allowed to sleep in my bed.
“I’m here tonight,” I said, too exhausted to give her a piece of my mind. “I want to go to sleep.”
Carla and the man—her nephew, maybe?—argued in a Slavic language for a few seconds and then he angrily tossed aside my sheets. He stomped into the living room and slammed my bedroom door.
Ignoring the dude-smell on my sheets, I turned my pillow over to the fresh side and tried to relax.
“If you pay rent on time,” Carla said quietly, “maybe this does not happen. Yes?”
“Fuck off,” I whispered, too quiet for her to hear. I was two weeks late on this month’s rent, but that was pretty low on my list of priorities right now. After a few seconds I heard her roll back over and go to sleep.
Despite my exhaustion, I was now pissed off and unable to go to sleep. Soon my thoughts drifted back to my night, replaying everything that had happened and cringing at what I had said, and fantasizing about what I should have said. A hundred comebacks to their stupid offer came to me. Really witty stuff. Everyone was Shakespeare with the benefit of hindsight.
Once I’d depleted all my cleverness, I was left thinking about Braden.
About the scene we’d had together, and the lust that was so real in his eyes.
About the pseudo-date at the bar, both of us hitting it off better than any other date I’d ever been on.
And about stealing away to a secluded part of the subway and making love like the world was ending. The way his lips were warm and loving and present, as if kissing me were the only thing in the world a man should focus on. The way he felt inside of me, thick and full.
I tossed and turned while I slept, and wished it was Braden in my bed instead of Carla’s nephew.
My alarm went off 15 minutes later. At least, it felt like I’d only been in bed 15 minutes. When I was in high school, there were days I pretended to be sick so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed. Mom would make me chicken noodle soup with saltine crackers, and I’d waste the day away underneath the covers while watching The Price is Right and other daytime TV.
Adulthood didn’t afford me that option. I worked two jobs, and neither of them gave me sick time. Staying in bed meant not getting paid, or worse—getting fired.
I pulled myself from the comfort of my pillow and went through my morning routine.
I had just enough time left over to make breakfast. Earlier in the week I’d bought English muffins, eggs, and cheese so I could save money on breakfast on the way to work. A good idea in theory, but the kitchen was just as messy this morning as it was when I’d come home last night. The frying pan was nowhere to be seen under the pile of dishes in the sink, and there weren’t any plates. I considered digging around for them—and causing a racket in the process to make a point to my slovenly roommates—but the sad reality was I didn’t have the time to clean a pan and cook myself breakfast.
Already pissed off, I left my apartment and bought a coffee and breakfast sandwich on the way to the subway.
That was the problem with my situation. It was easy to look at someone who spent $9.99 on breakfast every morning and lecture them about how they could save $100 per week just by buying groceries and meal-prepping for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But that ignored the bigger problem with being poor: you weren’t just poor on money. You were poor on time.
