Great job, Stevie. Really excellent life choices all around.
I pull into my apartment complex as the sun is setting. Drag myself upstairs on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. Unlock the door.
The beige hits like a body check. A reminder that no matter how far I drove, I still live in a room the color of despair and unseasoned chicken.
I drop my purse on the counter. Kick off my shoes. Stand in the middle of the living room trying to remember how to be a person who lives here.
I need to do something. Anything. Need to move, to bake, to channel whatever is happening inside me into something productive before I vibrate out of my own skin.
I head to the kitchen. Pull out mixing bowls.
Reach for the flour.
The container is empty.
“Fuck.”
I slump against the counter. Close my eyes.
Of course I’m out of flour. Of course the one coping mechanism I have is unavailable at the exact moment I need it most.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I’ll unpack my purse. Put things away. Be organized, responsible, the kind of person who doesn’t drive across state lines to commit light stalking.
I dump the contents onto the counter.
Wallet. Keys. Sunglasses. Chapstick. Hair tie. Receipt from the restaurant. $47.83 for emotional pasta and a side of delusion. Five stars, would commit another felony.
And a pen.
Black. Heavy. The kind of pen someone buys because they use it every day, not the cheap ones you grab in bulk from office supply stores.
I pick it up slowly.
There’s a small engraving near the clip. Letters I didn’t notice before, couldn’t have noticed in the chaos of the restaurant.
D.M.
Dario Marchetti.
Oh no. Oh shit.
It’s not just any pen. His personal, engraved pen.
Physical evidence that I was there. At his table. Touching his things.
I should throw it away. Should drive to a dumpster three towns over and dispose of it like the incriminating evidence it is.
Instead, I run my thumb over the engraving.
D.M.
His initials under my fingers. Cool metal warming against my skin.
This is insane. I’m insane.
I just committed multiple felonies against a man who could have me killed with a phone call. And now I’m standing in my kitchen holding his pen like it’s a love letter. Like it means something. Like keeping it is anything other than deeply, profoundly deranged.
