She starts talking with her mouth full; a passing fire engine siren outside melts the words. Last year, 3700 people in the City were subpoenaed tickets for smoking indoors. How can one be so dependent, or brazen. It's baffling.
        
The TV is still on pause; Omar Sharif's black eyes, black robe, black turban dim over the room, protecting.
        
'I don't understand,' I say, sounding uncharacteristically annoyed.
        
'It's not me … it's you.'
        
'What's not me?'
        
'No, it is you.'
        
'What is me?!' I clench my teeth. Everybody expects that line so much that one doesn't hear the opposite.
        
'The Job,' she finally sighs, hiding her face behind a bar of fingers. 'I won't get the job unless you …'
        
'How do they even know about me?'
        
'They asked me.'
        
'What did they ask?'
        
'That if I had a boyfriend or girlfriend and if I loved that person?'
        
Is it possible for a Company to be both progressive and backward simultaneously? Or is the regime getting better at getting? Still, the question doesn't concern me as much as her answer.
        
'What did you tell them?'
        
'Of course I told them the truth,' she says, annoyed at my having even asked.
        
'This doesn't make any sense.' I say.
        
'You don't love me?'
        
'What are you talking about?' I grow agitated without raising my voice, not because I don't want to; remember, I grew up in a cramped home, and especially after the-last-one, my vocal cords are now permanently set to medium volume, incapable of outburst, incapable of driving her away.
        
She finishes the ice cream and I pick up the bowl from the coffee table to wash it again.
        
'Please,' I say, adjusting the temperature on the faucet, 'did you get the job … or not?'
        
She walks over to the window, looks away. 'Yes … it depends.'
        
Soap bubbles sneer over my hands; the water is so hot it turns my skin color to the fallen redbud tree flowers in the courtyard across the street.
        
'Do you want me to do that?' She says after I've dried and put the bowl away.
        
'The job depends on what?' I ask.
        
'On you doing something.'
        
'I have to do something for you so that you get the job? … of course. Why didn't you just say so. I mean, as long as it's legal,' I chuckle confirmation, 'anything. Name it.'
        
She stares at me, through me, as if her eyes are studying the painting above the mantle behind me. Sacrifice of Isaac by Caravaggio, though that's debatable since many believe the artist could also have been Bartolomeo Cavarozzi. Surprisingly, I had found the print in the garbage room, rolled up amongst boxes when I first moved in. I cleaned the mashed banana stains on it, spent a lot of money on an antique looking frame with iron gold wreaths engraved in the corners and hung it up, breaking my right thumbnail in the process. One can still see the slight  blood stain on the bottom right corner. Thankfully, the background is black. Portia brought a friend over once--Gale, the ER phone call--who took one look at the painting, and then turned to Portia, 'You're right, it's frickin' depressing.'
        
'Forget it,' Portia says. 'Let's just finish your movie.'
        
My movie?
        
'No. Seriously, what do you need me to do? Do you need help prepping with …'
        
'You have to kill yourself.'
        
I look over to the kitchen counter; Portia didn't take her medicine this morning. Or took too much of it? I can't remember.
        
Certain dishes depend on ingredients to not turn out disasters. In the case of Tikka Masala, green chilis are vital to the flavor. Even though the quantity may be minimal in the repot ire of ingredients, without the chilis, and especially without them being grounded into the foundational mixture of the masala prior to the start of cooking that would coat the breast and thigh and leg and sink under the fat, the dish would be void of its regarded aftertaste, the kick at the back of the throat, like an abusive lover, choking the tongue with a burning pain, and then, instantly, cajoling the taste buds to come back for more, another lick, one more bite, even when ones' tears, profuse sweating from the brow and behind the ears beg the hands to stop from reaching for more. Without green chilies, Tikka Masala is a failure. Worse. It isn't Tikka Masala. If missing the right ingredient is so crucial, is substituting it with the wrong one, also as detrimental? Or … worse?
        
'Seriously. Tell me what you need…'
        
'I just did,' she starts sobbing. 'Kill yourself. If you die, I can start on Monday.'
        
The words burst open like floodgates; she sobs uncontrollably. Even Omar Sharif looks away.
        
I reach for the tissue box next to the Bonsai plant, but it's too late; she's pulled the sweat shirt up to her eyes, her nose defecating onto the three-century old name turned upside down, the screen print now glazed with a garish bacteria sheen. I think about how Paulina (the Polish cleaning lady) will overcome this tragedy during laundry. On an unrelated note, I don't think there's ever been a fictional work showcasing an interaction between Jews & Japanese, at least not as the driving storyline. Who'd want to see a firsthand romance made vulnerable by secondhand contempt? Anyway, Paulina is the typical immigrant story. Sacrificed everything she loved to make it in America, including and especially her identity. Mine is the opposite; I willfully surrendered emotion for my native land, kept only the practical upbringing ( cleanliness, remember ), flew here in 13 hours, to a City whose language was second, but it's encouragement to be yourself, felt innate, even if one doesn't know who one really is. Not all the time, anyway. If one's view of the world can be in flux, why can't the same hold true inward? Rebellion upon the self. Unpredictability. That's what regimes fear the most.
        
This is my one chance.
        
I tell her, 'If you hate me so much why don't you just lea…'
        
'I love you!' She screams. 'Didn't I just tell you? Why would you think that? This is what they told me.'
        
I have no choice left but to evaluate the proposal earnestly. Ask her for proof. She hands over a plush contract comprised of many papers, the super thick kind that cost money. Everything she has said is typed in there already; the Company is also affiliated with City Hall. They've succeeded in getting to me finally.
        
'You really mean to say that if I kill myself, they will offer you a job? Full-time? With a contract and everything?'
        
'And a signing bonus.' She's finally done mauling the sweat shirt.
        
Not knowing how to react, I grab my phone, clasp it around my hand tightly, accidentally switch on the music app. The speakers in the room sound off a ballad by The Artist formerly known as Prince.
        
The multiple stage names, in particular, the rechristening with the unpronounceable, iconic symbol, which of course, like everything else that doesn't have a name but an unquestionable devotion towards, later on came to be known as the love symbol, was a rare random romance of pop culture, talent and capitalism aligning seamlessly, by accident, not by design, but natural design, like birth.
        
'You're not seriously considering it?' She mistakenly allots my 80's detour daydream for rumination on her predicament. Or does she?
        
'If you need the job so badly why don't you just poison me or something?'
        
She shakes her head. 'It has to be suicide.'
        
Killing the will to live is more victorious than killing for the powers that be.
        
I deduce she has already considered pushing me in front of the #11 Bus across the street, on the shift of the driver who always wears yellow shaded sunglasses, honks flirtatiously whenever he sees Portia and me walking in the direction of the redbud tree. She doesn't accompany me there anymore, heading down into the subway at the corner, while I cross over, enter the courtyard bound by a rusted fence to think about nothing in particular.
        
'What if I were to leave. Like somewhere far away, on a plane. Tonight?'
        
She rubs her now dry eyes. Negative.
        
'How do you even know you'll like the Job? What if you hate it?'
        
'The lady who interviewed me seems really nice. They cater lunch for the whole staff from a new vegan restaurant that's run by an immigrant from Ethiopia. In the Winter, there's a Company retreat, usually Fort Lauderdale, but they might even switch to Miami this year since the last two quarters numbers have been really good. And Gale works in the same building too. We can split a cab every day. She rode with me today too on the way back.'
        
Too many lives are at stake; anyway, the odds of me ever producing anything of timeless relevance are extraordinarily low now anyway. If I go on living with her, my descent will be certain, incapable of rebellion. If I do kill myself, I will at least be free, but sans art. Either way, I've lost. Worse, I've lost unpredictability.
        
I just need to confirm one last thing. 'Did you like the Tikka masala?' I ask.
        
'It was really good. I'm glad I didn't pick up the green chilis … it would've totally killed the flavor.'
        
It's almost midnight. I suppose the time is opportune too.
        
'Will you be alright?' I ask, sincerely.
        
'OK.'
        
I walk up to her, we embrace wordlessly as if we're getting married. Omar Sharif overseeing the proceedings.
        
'Are you going out tonight? I say.
        
'Maybe. I don't know. This feels weird.' She bites a nail.
        
I kiss her, run my fingers through her highlighted hair, which she got done last month. Women change their hair after there is a change in their life, I read somewhere. Did she know it would come to this too? Or just them?
        
I nudge her aside gently, so I can open the window behind.
        
I climb onto the ledge clumsily; I am only on the fourth floor so will have to be precise with my aim. If I manage to fall on my head directly over the fire hydrant on the street, there won't be any risk of just broken bones or a coma.
        
I can hear her mumbling my name behind me, faintly; I'm too preoccupied now with wondering if I've forgotten something, but I'm certain there is no one I'll really miss, so it doesn't matter. The spring breeze is almost non-existent. Across the street, I see the redbud tree, now almost barren, its flowers scattered over concrete, like fallen soldiers waiting to be cremated by summer.
        
I close my eyes, lift a leg and step forward. The weightlessness of freedom is as beautiful as it is short lived. By the time I open my eyes again in the rushing descent, it is too late to remind Portia, who, just like the contract folder, is not there anymore, to not to forget to water the Bonsai. Maybe Gale will; she comes by time to time to check if I'm taking my medication.
        
This part isn't just like a movie.
        
The last thing I see is a boy, no older than 9 from another apartment, skipping out on his bedtime, staring out through his window, watching me fall. To him, I look like a diving water bear; invincible. Where's the message from the universe in that?
        
OK.