Page 2 of Dante
I do. But going home means questions I can't answer. Looks I can't stand. The way my mother's eyes track to my hand every time she thinks I'm not watching.
"Call me tonight?" she asks. "After work?"
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We say goodbye. I love yous exchanged like currency. I set the phone on the counter and stare at it for a long moment.
I finish my coffee standing at the counter. Sitting at the small table feels too permanent. Too much like settling in. I eat breakfast the same way—a piece of toast with peanut butter, consumed in four bites while I check my work email.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. I keep the TV on low most nights, just for the noise. Just so the silence doesn't press in.
I shower with the bathroom door open. Need to hear if someone comes in.
The water pressure in this building is terrible, but I've stopped noticing. I wash my hair with the same shampoo I've used for three years. Sophia bought it for me once, said it would help me relax.
It doesn't. But I keep buying it anyway.
I dry off and stand in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at me is fine. Normal. Brown hair that needs a trim. Blue-green eyes with circles underneath that concealer mostly hides. A body that's thinner than it used to be because I forget to eat lunch more often than I remember.
Fine. Normal. Just a regular woman getting ready for work.
I reach for my moisturizer.
The jar slips. Hits the sink with a clatter that makes my heart jump into my throat.
I grab the edge of the counter with my left hand. Breathe. Count to five.
The cramp passes. It always does. I pick up the jar with my left hand and finish my routine one-handed, the way I've learned to do everything.
Getting dressed takes longer than it should. Buttons are a problem. I've switched to mostly pull-over tops, wrap dresses, anything that doesn't require fine motor control in my right hand.
Today it's a soft gray sweater and black pants. Professional but comfortable. The kind of outfit that saysI have my life togetherwithout trying too hard.
I check the locks before I leave.
The routine is automatic now. I don't even think about it. My body just does it, the same way it maps the exits when I walk into a room, the same way it catalogs the faces of strangers on the street.
Hypervigilance, my therapist called it. Before I stopped going.
I call it staying alive.
My keys go in my left pocket. Phone in my right. Pepper spray clipped to the inside of my bag where I can reach it fast.
The gun stays in the closet. I don't need it for work.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Four flights down. Good exercise, I tell myself. Nothing to do with small enclosed spaces and the way my chest tightens when the doors close.
The morning air hits my face as I push through the building's front door. Denver in early spring—still cold enough to see my breath, but the sun is out. The mountains in the distance are capped with snow.
I pause on the steps. Scan the street. Left, right, across. The coffee shop on the corner. The dry cleaner that's never open when I need it. Mrs. Patterson walking her ancient beagle.
Normal. Safe. Just another Tuesday morning.
I start walking toward the bus stop, my right hand curled into a fist in my coat pocket.
