I am in a lift, heading up to the forty-fifth floor, to Russell’s apartment, 45-O, the studio apartment with the grand piano, the windows overlooking midtown Manhattan. On windy nights you could feel the building sway, ever so slightly. On cold nights – how many were there? – he lit a fire. I remember a fireplace, although it’s possible there wasn’t one. We’d make love, silently, because I was too shy to speak once my clothes were off. I thought my body should be able to say enough, to say all I couldn’t, the words sliding off my body onto the bed, into the air, on our sweaty limbs as they coasted over each other—it’s no good. I can’t remember much about us back then. I do remember he made me scream once – that may have been the first time I’d ever had an orgasm with someone inside me – but that was in my shared apartment on the eighth floor, a West End Avenue sublet, books lining the walls of the curving entry hallway, where the two rooms radiated off. There was a piano there, too, but it was in bad need of a tuning, which my roommate and I could never afford, and the real tenants were living elsewhere, in Europe or someplace I only dreamed about at the time. Russell went on the QE2 from New York to London, where they had grand pianos ready for him. That January it snowed a lot and I waited for him to call me. I knew when he was returning but he didn’t call for another week. The next winter he said he was getting married. Since I hadn’t ever been able to talk to him in a way that didn’t involve my body, I wasn’t surprised, but I felt my heart craze against my stomach when he told me. I went to the pre-wedding party, a posh event in a huge uptown apartment. I don’t remember anything about it except what I wore, and I expect I drank too much. My friends thought I was mad to go. I moved to London the following summer. Now I look him up on the internet and of course he has no idea.

From Barbara’s collection To the Boneyard published by Eyewear Publishing. You can purchase it here.