Gypsy Water

Spotify was down, so I wrote a short story in the style of Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut.
Two old friends. One tech blackout. No distractions. Just perfume, wine, old clothes—and a plan to stop and smell the flowers.

The doorbell buzzed, startling Nina, a sharp mechanical interruption to the birdsong that had been the only soundtrack of her morning.

She was seated at the kitchen table with a mug of half-cold coffee, still in her robe, hair in a bun, when she was startled by the buzz. She blinked, then looked toward the intercom. Probably Gloria, she thought, though her maid usually texted instead of ringing. She stood, stretching slightly, and made her way across the apartment—big by city standards, tidy but not sterile. A vase of wilting ranunculus leaned nearby. Children’s drawings curled on the fridge.

“Come up!” she called.

A moment later, a knock. She opened the door and blinked in surprise.

Lena stood there in tiny sunglasses and an oversized blazer, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a large man’s watch. Her short, stylish haircut was still tousled from the wind, like she’d dressed for a street-style shoot without knowing it. In one hand she held a bottle of wine, in the other, a sweating iced coffee.

“I thought you were the maid,” Nina said. “She only texts, so I haven’t heard from her.”

“Do you have almond milk? Oat? Some kind of nut-based miracle?” Lena asked, breezing in.

“Cashew, macadamia, pistachio. We’re one hemp milk away from becoming a co-op,” Nina replied.

“God bless you.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“With what, a carrier pigeon? I figured you’d be free. The world’s offline, isn’t it? You’re lucky I had cash for these.”

“Tragically. I almost read a book.”

They laughed as Nina gestured toward the kitchen. Lena dropped her bag on the marble counter and kicked off her shoes onto a thick wool rug, knocking the perfectly laid tassels out of place.

“Your place is… very adult,” Lena said, glancing around. “It’s giving Nancy Meyers by way of Architectural Digest. And it looks even bigger inside. I’ve only seen it in your stories.”

“Only if Nancy Meyers did quarterly taxes and saved receipts.”

“I’m sure she does, probably.”

Lena reached into a glass-fronted cabinet and pulled out two thin-stemmed crystal wine glasses that rang delicately when she lifted them, all elegance and overkill. She hesitated, faintly checking whether it was okay.

“That’s from the set you gave us when we got married,” Nina said. “You said they were too nice for your studio.”

“They were,” Lena replied, shrugging. “And now look at you—married, kids, still drinking out of crystal. Icon behavior.”

Nina smiled politely.

“So. What does a half-day working mom do when her Spotify dies?” Lena asked. “Meditate? Bake? Do you have a Pilates machine hidden somewhere?”

“Considered both,” Nina said. “Settled on reorganizing the junk drawer. Made it halfway. The Pilates machine is in the shop.”

It was unclear if she was joking.

“That’s… a way to pass the time,” Lena said.

“Welcome to my Tuesday.”

A silence followed. Not unfriendly—just slightly out of rhythm, like tuning forks that used to hum the same.

“I almost texted you from the elevator to say I was outside. Pure muscle memory,” Lena said.

“I asked Alexa for a podcast and she just… blinked at me. Existential.”

“We used to be so good at being bored.”

“When were we ever bored?”

They both laughed. Nina poured wine into the glasses and handed one over. They clinked, awkwardly, almost as an afterthought.

Lena set her iced coffee down and pulled a folded newspaper from her tote. “This was on your front steps. I haven’t held a physical paper since… maybe Obama?”

“You can’t do Wordle in print,” Nina said. “What’s even the point?”

“Apparently a bunch of college kids broke into a datacenter with axes. Took down half the East Coast. Literal axes.”

“Sounds like us,” Nina said. “Although we never carried axes. Not very chic.”

“OMG, speaking of axes,” Lena said, lighting up. “Do you remember when we stayed up all night watching that Korean horror movie and your roommate thought we were possessed?”

“It was Japanese, but yes. And she saged the apartment the next morning.”

“She hated me.”

“She hated everyone. She also thought birds were government spies.”

“Okay, but that turned out to be true.”

Lena peered out the window with mock suspicion. “At least they can’t see us now. They’re wi-fi, right? Wi-finch?”

They laughed again, looser now.

“When you said axes, I thought you were about to bring up exes. I was ready to get some dirt,” Lena said, lifting her wine glass.

Nina smirked. “You always were nosy.”

“I was observant. And honestly, it’s not like I had anything better to do at those parties.”

“Yeah, except flirt with anyone over six feet tall.”

“Only the charming ones. Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t most of them.”

They both laughed again—deeper this time, like they used to, but maybe with laugh lines a little more deeply carved.

“Do you ever hear from Dylan?” Nina asked casually, not looking at her.

“Occasionally, he’ll like a selfie, then slide into my DMs. He does set design for reality TV now. Married to someone with a wellness brand. The last thing he texted me was ‘blessed to be a vessel.’”

“Oh my God.”

Lena shrugged. “It tracks. I forget sometimes you were the wild one.”

“I wasn’t wild. I was… seasonal.”

“That’s such a mom answer.”

“I am a mom.”

They paused, listening to the birds and swirling the wine.

“And you?” Nina asked. “Anyone serious?”

“No. Not since the girl with the pet snake.”

“Oh God, her.”

“She said I lacked spiritual curiosity.”

“You do.”

“I know. That’s why I liked her. How do you do the HUSBAND thing anyway? I thought you’d never repeat outfits or holidays with the same man.”

Nina raised an eyebrow, but not with offense. “It’s… manageable. Most days.” She took a sip of wine. “It’s not the marriage that gets to me. It’s the little humiliations. Like when he likes a celebrity’s thirst trap on Instagram. Full heart emoji. Public. Loud.”

Lena laughed, setting down her glass.

“It’s not that I care. I love a hot celebrity. I just don’t hit the like. You don’t let them see you want it. Men need to believe they could have a shot with some twenty-five-year-old in a bikini. It keeps them cheerful, like giving a toddler a sticker. But God forbid you ever say some actor’s handsome. You’ll hear about it for months. Every fight, every silence—‘Maybe you should go find Chris Evans, then.’”

She lifted her glass again, smirking.

“You have to play dumb. That’s the secret. You say, ‘Oh, that guy? He was too pretty.’ ‘That one? He was a jerk.’ If you don’t, they turn every handsome face you ever liked into a personal vendetta.”

Lena snorted. “It’s exhausting.”

“It is,” Nina said lightly. “But it’s still better than listening to them explain NFTs.”

Lena refilled her glass. “Still, you always seemed like someone who’d get out.”

Nina looked up. “Get out?”

“Of this. Of here. I really thought you’d end up back in L.A.—doing interiors for people with Netflix money or running the world’s chicest Airbnb boho retreat.”

“Same. For you, I pictured Berlin, gallery director by day, bisexual chaos agent by night.”

“I mean… I gave it a shot. The gallery thing, not Berlin. Although I did wake up next to an LED pacifier once, so spiritually, I was there.”

“What happened with that gallery? I saw your reels, the space looked amazing.”

“The space was amazing. The problem was everyone watched it the same way. I met a bunch of influencers at Art Basel and they came through with promoting me, I have twenty thousand followers. but only about twenty visitors. I guess no one goes out anymore—at least not to live events you can’t place a bet on. I knew I should have worked with those Meow Wolf guys but it’s a rental, I can’t have people cutting up the floor to make a secret passage to Chick-fil-a or whatever.”

Nina laughed, then tilted her head. “Honestly? Probably would’ve gone viral. People only show up these days if there’s something to take a selfie in front of—ice cream pop-ups, neon signs, rainbow walls, or a neon rainbow ice cream monster that pops up like it might bite you.”

“It’s wild—we’re so connected we forgot to hang out. We haven’t even seen each other in person since your birthday? The one with the cake that spilled out candy?”

“I think that was a Zoom.”

“It’s hard for me to get a sitter. So what’s the vibe now that you’re back in the city? Minimalist despair?”

“I’d ask my astrology app if something is retrograde, but…”

The landline rang—startling in its presence. Nina glanced at the caller ID and sighed. “Ugh. School. Probably chaos.”

She stepped away to answer. Her voice was low but carried clearly through the quiet apartment. “Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. You usually text about pickup. Did someone dig up the old phone tree?”

A pause. Lena, in the other room, smirked to herself as she overheard.

Nina continued, “Either my husband or I will be there at 3:30. Unless you’ve gone full rotary today.”

Left alone, Lena let the silence expand. “Can I snoop around?” she called out. “Or is it all too adult in here for mischief?”

“Knock yourself out,” Nina called back. “Just don’t reorganize my nightstand. It’s my chaos shrine.”

Lena wandered into the bedroom. It was as well-appointed as the rest—art books, a ring light, a knock-off Turrell light fixture, a poster from Marfa, TX, and the biggest floor-length mirror she’d ever seen. There were signs of curated aspiration everywhere: a perfectly made bed with a linen duvet cover that matched a pair of barely-worn designer sneakers lined up just so; a side table stacked with unread hardcovers, all with embossed titles and award seals. She stopped at a mirrored tray of perfume bottles, dozens of them gleaming like little jewels. She picked one up and read the label.

“Gypsy Water,” she murmured. “Okay, fortune teller.”

She sprayed it on her wrists, her neck, her arms—one after another. The room began to smell like a Bergdorf’s beauty counter.

When Nina reappeared, she wrinkled her nose. “Jesus. Are you trying to summon a Victorian ghost?”

“Just sampling your personality.”

“Which one is it?”

Lena smiled. “Somewhere between ‘enigmatic art dealer’ and ‘heiress who summers in Minorca.’”

“So, delusional.”

“But hot.”

“I’ll take it.”

“You always do.”

“This smells like spring,” Nina said, taking Lena’s hand and sniffing her wrist. “Seriously—let’s go tomorrow. The botanic garden. If the world’s still down, we can just be there. No posts, no selfies, just us—actually seeing the flowers.”

Lena smiled. “Wild. Imagine looking at something just to remember it.”

“I’ll bring snacks. You bring a blanket. And since we’re not posting it, I’m bringing the trashiest possible snacks—gummy worms, maybe Doritos. We’ll picnic like it’s 2007. Shame we can’t take the record player,” Nina said.

“Make them gummy edibles and I’m definitely there,” Lena said. “And that’s a great idea—let’s crack open this vinyl collection.”

They laughed. She flipped through the records and pulled out The Velvet Underground & Nico.

“God, the banana one. Classic.”

“I bought it because of the Warhol cover,” Nina admitted. “Total poser move. I didn’t even listen to it until, like, a year later.”

“You’re allowed to decorate with culture. It’s very on-brand.”

Lena dropped the needle. “Sunday Morning” started to play—dreamy, tentative, like it was afraid to wake someone.

“Are our wasted years so close behind?” Lena asked, barely above a whisper, not sure if she meant it as a joke or a prayer.

“Those are the same sunglasses you wore that summer in Montauk,” Nina said.

“No way. These are new. Designer. Responsible.”

“They’re basically identical. Same tiny lenses, same energy. You looked like a backup singer in Arcade Fire.”

“Flattering.”

“Here,” Nina said. “Let me see what else I’ve got.”

She walked into the spacious closet and pulled out a wide, shallow drawer from the built in wardrobe.

“Try these,” she said, already grinning.

They started trying on sunglasses—aviators, mirrored, cat-eyed. Each pair brought a new character. They mugged and posed in the mirror, narrating fake runway bios in bad accents.

“This calls for catwalk music!” Nina declared, bouncing slightly. She put away Velvet Underground and switched to MGMT. The first synthy beat dropped like a sugar rush. Lena caught her reflection mid-pose and paused, momentarily distracted—not by herself, but by how spotless Nina’s mirror was. Every time she posted a selfie in her own, she was reminded to clean it. Here, the glass looked invisible.

They tried on outfits from Nina’s closet—silks and jumpsuits, a vintage slip dress that Lena insisted she wear with combat boots. It became a fashion show. Laughter spilled out through the open windows.

Lena watched Nina in the mirror, changing. She wasn’t leering—just quietly surprised. Nina looked good. Her hair was the longest she’d seen it, halfway down her back. She’d taken it down from the tight bun it had been in earlier, and it softened her whole face, like something unspooled. Tattoos peeked out from her shoulder and hip—ones Lena had forgotten they’d gotten together. Her body was strong and feminine, soft in the right places, not frail or “mommed out.” Lena noticed how much fuller Nina’s breasts were—rounder, higher, like they defied physics and motherhood alike. Maybe it was the mirror, or the lighting, or maybe Nina really did have a Pilates machine. Lena wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. It struck a nerve she couldn’t name. Something about it felt unfair, or maybe just enviable. Or maybe it was just beautiful.

“God, I’m jealous you can still go without a bra,” Nina said. “That stopped being an option for me somewhere between the second pregnancy and the third breast milk pump.”

“I hope that wasn’t one of the coffee creamer options.”

Nina snorted. “God, I haven’t done this in years.”

“You mean smiled?”

“Touched my own clothes, like, for joy.”

They collapsed onto the bed in mismatched outfits, flushed from wine and movement. Nina picked up the landline again, grinning.

“Hey—it’s me. I can’t believe I remember your desk phone number. Can you do pickup? Mrs Sullivan is having a fit. I told her you’d be there. I’m… hosting. Yeah. I’ll explain later. Thank you. Love you.”

She hung up and looked at Lena.

“You’re a bad influence.”

“That’s why I get invited back.”

Lena flopped backward onto the bed, arms splayed. “By the way, I think cherry blossoms are actually from China, not Japan.”

“No, they’re Japanese,” Nina said immediately, grabbing a pillow and swatting her with it.

“They were a gift from Japan, but originally they came from China,” Lena insisted, dodging.

Without thinking, they both turned toward the dormant voice assistant.

“Hey Siri—”

“Where do cherry blossoms come from—”

“Who invented cherry blossoms—”

They dissolved into laughter as the blank silence answered them.

“Hey Siri, why do my kids look more like their father every year?” Nina called out dramatically.

“Hey Siri, do I lack spiritual curiosity?” Lena added, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the bed.

They shouted more increasingly ridiculous confessions into the silence, giddy and unmoored, until the music caught their attention again and they let themselves drift back into it.

Lena pulled a vape from her pocket—sleek, absurd, with a tiny arcade-style screen that displayed a pixelated flower when she inhaled.

“What is that, a nicotine Tamagotchi?” Nina asked, laughing.

“It’s my Juulius Caesar,” Lena replied, taking another drag. The flower on the screen bloomed in animated slow motion.

Nina rolled her eyes but eventually took a hit herself, coughing once. “God, that tastes like bubblegum and regret.”

“That’s the limited edition.”

Nina tried a long drag and choked, tears streaming, as Lena narrated the flower blooming on the screen like it was a sacred ritual. The absurdity became contagious. The room smelled strongly of perfume and vape smoke—sharp and sweet and chemically nostalgic. It reminded them of the clubs they used to dance in, half-dressed and over-scented, the confidence of youth refracted in the disco ball.

They finished the albariño and opened another from Nina’s wine fridge. Then another. At some point, Nina left and returned with a bin of the kids’ art supplies—markers, colored pencils, glitter glue—and dumped it on the bedroom floor.

“Portrait session,” she declared.

They each drew the other, laughing through the challenge of it. Nina exaggerated Lena’s sunglasses, giving her five cheekbones and a beret. Lena gave Nina tiny arms and enormous boobs. They were laughing so hard their stomachs ached, eyeliner smudged, and glitter from the art supplies ended up in Nina’s hair. It felt chaotic, juvenile, and exactly right.

A little while later, they were still lying on the bed, the music low and woozy around them, when the distant slam of a car door broke through the music and birdsong outside, followed by a crescendo of tiny voices and sneakered feet skipping along the pavement.

“Wait—why is the Wi-Fi out here too?!” one of the kids shrieked from the sidewalk.

Lena stood, smoothing her borrowed dress and taking one last look around. The polish on her nails was still wet—Nina had insisted on painting them a pale pink, the same color as the cherry blossoms they planned to see the next day. It was a little indulgence, and it looked different than back when she only wore black. “You’ll match the trees,” Nina had said, grinning, and Lena let her. It looked better on her now. She didn’t want to see the kids today, or remind Nina’s husband that she was still here. This was enough social interaction for one day.

“That them?” Lena asked.

“Yeah.”

“I should go.”

Nina didn’t argue. She just nodded. They gathered themselves—no ceremony, no big goodbye. Lena stepped into her shoes as Nina turned off the record player. The faint static gave way to the sounds outside: birds, a breeze, children laughing.

The clink of wine bottles echoed as Nina began to clean up.

Lena slipped out quietly, pulling her phone from her bag out of habit—something to look at instead of the people she was avoiding. It felt silly, and it was, but she did it anyway. It had been a silly day. A great day. She heard the scooter clatter against the front steps behind her and one last burst of laughter drift up to the open windows. That was enough.

---

The next morning, the light was harsher. Less golden. A half-drunk glass of water sat on the nightstand. The record player was gone—replaced overnight by her husband’s laptop and a tangle of charging cables. Nina stared at the spot where it had been. The scent of yesterday’s perfume had gone stale in the air.

Nina sat at the kitchen table in her robe, scrolling through her phone, sipping coffee. The glow of the screen was cold and bright. Everything was back—Spotify, Instagram, messaging, news. Digital life humming again like nothing ever happened. If the birds were still singing, Nina didn’t notice.

On her feed: a reel. Pale pink cherry blossoms fluttered in soft morning sun. A harp cover of a pop song played faintly.

“Cherry blossoms peaking! 🌸 Go now!” the caption read.

She saw that Lena had already liked the post.

Nina stared at it for a moment, then tapped the heart icon. She set her phone down, face down.

She lifted her wrist and smelled it. A ghost of the perfume from the day before still clung to her skin—something citrusy and warm.

She opened her phone again, then closed it. She did not text. She did not leave.

The apartment was quiet. Outside, spring was blooming. She scrolled.