The Paris Apartment

Nick

I lean forward onto the handlebars of the Peloton bike, standing up in the saddle for the incline. There’s sweat running into my eyes, stinging. My lungs feel like they’re full of acid, not air, my heart hammering so hard it feels like I might be about to have a heart attack. I pedal harder. I want to push beyond anything I’ve done before. Tiny stars dance at the edges of my vision. The apartment around me seems to shift and blur. For a moment I think I’m going to pass out. Maybe I do—next thing I know I’m slumped forward over the handlebars and the mechanism is whirring down. I’m hit by a sudden rush of nausea. I force it down, take huge gulps of air.

I got into spinning in San Francisco. And bulletproof coffee, keto, Bikram—pretty much any other fad the rest of the tech world was into, in case it provided any extra edge, any additional source of inspiration. Normally I’d sit here and do a class, or listen to a Ted Talk. This morning wasn’t like that. I wanted to lose myself in pure exertion, push through to a place where thought was silenced. I woke just after five a.m., but I knew I wasn’t going to sleep, especially during that fight in the courtyard, the latest—and worst—of many. Getting on the bike seemed like the only thing that made sense.

I climb down from the saddle, a little unsteadily. The bike is one of the few items in this room besides my iMac and my books. Nothing up on the walls. No rugs on the floor. Partly because I like the whole minimal aesthetic. Partly because I still feel like I haven’t really moved in, because I like the idea that I could up and leave at any moment.

I pull the headphones out of my ears. It sounds like things have quieted down out there in the courtyard. I walk over to the window, the muscles in my calves twitching.

I can’t see anything at first. Then my eye snags on a movement and I see there’s a girl down there, opening the door to the building. There’s something familiar about her, about the way she moves. Difficult to put my finger on, but my mind gropes around as if for a forgotten word.

Now I see the lights come on in the apartment on the third floor. I watch her move into my line of sight. And I know that she has to be something to do with him. With my old mate and—as of very recently—neighbor, Benjamin Daniels. He told me about a younger sister, once. Half sister. Something of a tearaway. Bit of a problem case. From his old life, however much he’d tried to sever himself from all that. What he definitely didn’t tell me was that she was coming here. But then it wouldn’t be the first time he’s kept something from me, would it?

The girl appears briefly at the windows, looking out. Then she turns and moves away—toward the bedroom, I think. I watch her until she’s out of sight.