The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin

of apartment keys that jangled like a tambourine.
There was a delay while she flipped and sorted the keys on the ring, and she
managed to open the door on the sixth try. There were three odours inside. One
was mildew, one was tangerine, both emanating from the same source: a bowl of
fruit rotting in the centre of the kitchen table. The third aroma was from
Elizabeth, a familiar lilac scent that made itself quite known now that she was
contained within the four walls of the sealed apartment. This scent thickened
and intensified as though it were pumped into the room by a compressor.
    Elizabeth
swept the pungent tangerines into a paper bag and stuck them in the waste can
under the sink, all the while talking up the glories of apartment 214. She wore
a tight brown linen skirt that stopped about three inches above her knees, a
matching jacket, and a cream silk blouse with a cream silk cravat. She turned
on the air conditioner to max, which intensified the mouldy smell, causing us
both to sneeze. She flipped on the built-in kitchen television to make the
place seem lively and swung open the refrigerator to show me its massive cubic
feet interior. Price seventeen hundred a month, she said, first and last, plus
a security deposit.
    “This
is a great building,” she said. “Usually they want references, but I can get
you around it.”
    “Don’t
worry, I have references,” I said, wondering who I meant.
    This
was the first time I’d had a chance to really see Elizabeth. She had always
been either too far away or too close up. Now I could frame her like a
three-quarter portrait and see all her details. She was ran. Probably not from
the sun, I guessed. She wore several gold rings studded with gems; none was on
her wedding finger. She had a gold chain around her neck, at the end of which
was a pair of rhinestone-encrusted reading glasses. Her eyes were blue. Not her
irises, but her lids, which had been faintly daubed with eye shadow. Her skin
had a hint of orange; her hair was a metallic gold, which darkened as it neared
the roots. She was a collection of human colours that had been lightly tweaked
and adjusted. Her efforts in the area of presentation made me admire her more.
    Elizabeth
was a prize object. She had picked up beauty tricks from everywhere; she had
assembled herself from the best cosmetics had to offer. Any man she chose to
be with would be envied, and made complete by her. A man who built an empire
would certainly need Elizabeth by his side; he would need her and he would
deserve her. I knew now that no matter how much I lied to her, the truth would
come out about who and what I was, but I just stood there anyway, continuing my
dumb charade while she radiated perfection.
    She
asked if I also wanted to see a three-bedroom down the hall that had just come
up. I must have said yes, because the next thing I knew I was in the apartment
next door, being shown each closet and bathroom. This place was unfurnished,
and Elizabeth’s high heels clacked on the bare floor with such snap that it was
like being led around by a flamenco dancer. I looked at the apartment with
longing, as it was roomy, filled with light, and freshly painted. No tangerine
rot here, and I told Elizabeth, who by now was calling me Daniel, that I would
check with my co-biographer Sue Dowd to make sure the size of the place wouldn’t
intimidate her and thus hinder her writing.
    After
the ritualized locking of both apartments, Elizabeth led the way back down the
stairs and onto the street. She sprung her car trunk from forty feet, reached
in it, and handed me a brochure. She stood there on the sidewalk just as I had
seen her do so many times from my window. Only now it was me to whom she was
saying, “This is a very desirable area,” and “Each apartment has two parking
spaces underground.” I was in on it. I was in on the conversations I had only
imagined. Even after these few minutes of talking with her, spending time with
her, trying to see her as