After drying off and changing, she retrieves the mail. Bills, junk letters, the monthly subscription to Self. Ethan’s invitation is at the bottom. She studies the invitation itself, noting the texture of the paper. Expensive.

            The wedding won’t happen for another three months. But Lena, Ethan’s bride-to-be, insists upon preparation, a flow of bonding activities. Therese envisions truckloads of finger sandwiches and rows of club crackers, conversations empty, and interactions mimicking the awkward hesitation of middle school dances.

            Ethan had met Lena in college. They were undergraduates at the University of Connecticut. Ethan was a sophomore, Lena a freshman. They’d met at a fraternity party, (an obvious opportunity to find love, at least for a night). Typical to most modern fairy-tales of the collegiate sort, they’d locked eyes over the latest rap song.

            After thirty minutes of surreptitious looks, Ethan sauntered across the room, clutching his plastic cup, flashing a coy grin. The thump of the bass muffled his voice; Ethan had to brush aside Lena’s hair and whisper in her ear.

            With glazed eyes, Therese shuffles through memories. She remembers the summer Ethan turned thirteen. She was ten. Jack Quincy moved to the neighborhood from California. It’s difficult to recall a complete portrait of Jack. Therese summons a mop of honey hair, an oval face with heavy-lidded eyes, the outline of a disproportionate mouth. She can see the sketch of a boy, ringing the doorbell, skateboard tucked beneath his armpit.

            After all these years, she still blames Jack. Ethan and Therese had been so close; when Jack arrived, her brother seemed to realize his best friend was a girl and his sister to boot.

            The previous summer, Ethan and Therese would ride their bikes to the beach. They’d collaborate on the architecture of sandcastles; Ethan could take credit for the majority of the labor. Therese would smother the outside walls with sea glass and seaweed. When their task was finished, Ethan would cross his arms and step back, admiring their work. On the way home, they’d stop at Dairy Queen. Therese would always be a few nickels short; Ethan would sigh and whip out the necessary change.

            Jack’s arrival changed everything. One morning, Therese waited for Ethan in the driveway. Steering in sloppy circles, a breeze fluttered her streamers. Five minutes bled into fifteen. Finally, Jack rolled down the street, whizzing past Therese. He rang the bell once. Ethan emerged. Ethan snatched his bike, hardly noticing his sister. Therese watched, throat clogged with bewilderment. Jack took the lead, adjusting his balance, a veteran surfer of the concrete. Ethan followed.

            “I’ll see you later, Reese!” he shouted.

            Therese had stood, spine stiff, nails digging into the bike’s handlebars. She spent the rest of the day watching cartoons, eating cookies, and knocking back continuous glasses of Juicy Juice. The next morning, Ethan had left before she’d awoken. Their dad failed to understand Therese’s dismay.

            “It’s good he’s got a friend his own age, a friend that’s a boy,” he’d said.

            Therese scowled, dumping sugar on her Chex. After breakfast, she went up to her room and gathered her Barbies. She arranged them according to hair color. She ventured into the bathroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. One by one, she butchered their hair, snipping close to the scalp, the synthetic locks creating a crude mosaic on her carpet. 

            Therese cites the transfiguration of their relationship to that particular moment. From then on, Ethan remained her Brother and nothing more. The label lacked intimacy or weight, like a term in the dictionary missing its definition.

            It was Jack, you see, that ruined everything.

***

            This year, it’s been remarkably warm for September. Summer refuses to leave; half the city indulges in the fortunate luck, flashing shorts and flip-flops. Therese can’t understand the hype. Don’t they know the heat won’t last? That the sun will take longer and longer to rise, earlier and earlier to set? Naturally, she’s grown accustomed to the steel colored skylines that mark the start of Fall, the preview of the Winter to come. It’s the accumulation of the soot and the grim and the wheeze of cabs and buses. The millions of clouds of cigarette smoke, the aftermath of too many people cramped on miles of concrete. These ingredients are what make the canvas, one that Therese prefers over the piercing sunshine.

            She’s been living in the city for about seven years, four of them during college. At eighteen, she had a love affair with the city. Her perception was coated by her fascination; by her need to blend into the very concrete she walked on, the very shadows wedged between alleys and buildings. Therese had viewed her surroundings with wide eyes and giddy intoxication. Standing on street corners, she’d press her hand to her heart, savoring its steady flutter.  After graduating, she got a job at a PR company. When she first started, Therese didn’t even have her own coat hanger. Now she has her own office and phone line.

            Now, at twenty-four, it’s a marriage. Lust has cooled, replaced by loyalty and devotion. The skyscrapers, subways, and bright lights are no longer exotic. Only expected.

            The digital clock reads 11:11. For the past two hours, she’s been typing up e-mails and planning the upcoming press junket for a client. Therese thinks about calling Ethan, and then decides against it. He lives in Connecticut, not Siberia. She’ll see him soon, next week.