white truffle

It never ceased to amaze her. How those small nuggets could emit such a powerful smell. 

Nestled in a small dish of rice, they were the least salient things in the case. Visually, they were no match for the pates, sliced to reveal their flamboyant mosaics. They had none of the panache of the glistening slabs of smoked fish. Even the oozing wheels of cheese had more verve. Yet, they galvanized her attention.  

Her eyes fixed on the marker that rose up from behind the dish. Her breath caught.

She thought back to the last time that she had purchased them for a client. He hadn't even flinched when presented with the bill. No, there was no mistake.

"May I help you?"

"When did they come in?" she asked with her index finger pressed to the glass. She resolved that if it were three days or more, she would walk away with no regret.

"Tuesday"

"They're the last shipment of the season."

"Could you weigh one for me?"

"Which one?"

"The small one, please."

She watched the numbers come up on the digital display and tried to calculate the weight on her wallet. Without being asked, the clerk punched in the five digits. Reality set in. 

She closed her eyes in an attempt to focus. 

She couldn't…could she? 

There was the economy to consider. And the mortgage, the cars, college tuition (x2), the economy, the apartment on CPW (a student room is HOW MUCH?). Oh…and the economy.

The clerk passed it to her, loosely wrapped in waxed paper.

Up close, the scent was intoxicating, clouding her judgement.

Maybe…she could. 

She remembered that her birthday had just passed and she had been very good. Just that morning, she had walked past a display of Louis Vuitton bags without even a sideways glance. Later, she found a bottle of Vintage Port that she had lusted for, then reluctantly replaced it on the shelf. That one hurt. And, last night, hadn't she forgone a spendy tasting menu for a soulful bowl of ramen in the East Village?

She sighed and handed it back to the clerk.

Her day went downhill from there. The uptown train was 15 minutes late, sending her scrambling into the apartment to pack her bags and catch a taxi to the Metro-North station in Harlem.

The taxi driver was uncharacteristically slow. She watched the time anxiously and twice reminded him that she was catching a train. He would nod, unfazed, and continue his crawl.

She knew that she was cutting it close when she arrived at the station, rushing past the elevator to climb the stairs with bags in tow. From the landing, she caught sight of the train, waiting with its doors open. 

Yes! she was going to make it. 

As her foot left the top step, the doors closed. From inside the train, a man in a business suit looked up from his newspaper to give her a sympathetic smile. The train pulled away and disappeared down the track.

Dropping her bags, she let out a string of expletives that were reserved for times of extreme frustration. The hard guttural consonants usually had a purging effect. Not this time.

She paced the platform restlessly, considering her options. Waiting there for four hours for the next train was not one of them.

She could return to the apartment, providing that her son was still there to let her in. Or, she could wait for him in the park across the street, reading the massive book that she had brought with her. Barring that, there was the Turkish cafe at the end of his block with free wifi and strong coffee. 

Calmer now, she sat down on the wrought iron bench atop the elevated platform and looked down at the lively street scene below her. 

She carried a special place in her heart for Harlem. As a student, she would often ride the subway to 125th St from her room near Union Square. Even with the train fare, meals and groceries were cheaper than what she could find in her neighborhood. The simple, honest food was what drew her there. The vibrant cultural tapestry kept her coming back. Her roommates, though concerned for her safety, refused to accompany her. She once told them that Harlem was where "the real people were". She had been trying to make a point. They had cut her off, guffawing from their ivory tower.

The sun was starting it's descent into the Hudson, washing the scene with golden light. Her favorite time of day. Things were not as bad as they had seemed a moment ago. She realized that she had been given a gift—a stretch of time to do with as she pleased in a city full of possibilities. How was that a bad thing?

Besides, there was nothing urgent to return home to. Her husband and dog would be sound asleep. Work could wait another day. There was only one thing distracting her, but that, too, could wait for tomorrow.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out a half-pint deli container. The dry rice rattled against the plastic as she brought it up to her face. She peeled back the top, only enough to admit her nose, then inhaled deeply. 

Things were looking up.