He was having trouble looking past the bathtub.
“Are you living in some romantic comedy idea of a New York apartment?” he asks the first time she invites him over. “Or is this for real?”
The thing about the bathtub was that it was sat in the middle of her kitchen, a proper tub, white porcelain with a small brown crack along the rim and a sheet of plywood between the clawed feet and the tile floor.
“What?”
She likes the tub. Yes, okay, there’s an air of fiction to it, a bit of inherent set-design to a claw-foot tub in a freakishly spacious kitchen on the Lower East Side, but on Sunday afternoons, with a crack in her curtains and a really good book it’s the perfect place to read—and they had knocked off half the broker’s fee for the “inconvenience.”
“I have lived in New York all of my life,” he says. She doesn’t correct him. “And I have never before seen an actual, in-the-kitchen tub.”
“Well there’s a first time for everything.”
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