Chapter 10 - Apartment Door Locked Twice
I locked the apartment door twice behind me. The deadbolt first, then the chain. I stood with my forehead almost touching the wood and listened to the hallway until the building settled back into its evening sounds.
My name is Elena and I was still in my work shoes.
I didn't turn the light on right away. The kitchen window let in enough from the parking lot to see the counter. I dropped my keys in the chipped bowl by the door and stood there breathing in the smell of old grease from my polo. My apron was balled up in my tote. I hadn't untied it right at work. I'd just pulled the whole thing over my head in the back room and shoved it in.
The shift replayed without me asking it to. The tray weight on my forearm. Condensation under the cup. Matteo looking up at me. The bald man by the windows. My manager's voice low near the fry station telling me to take my break early. I could still feel where my hands had shaken after, in the walk-in, holding a box of lettuce I didn't need.
I kicked my shoes off and left them crooked by the mat. The linoleum was cold through my socks. I walked to the sink and washed my hands twice, scrubbing under the nails like I always did, watching the water go cloudy. My ponytail had loosened. I pulled the tie out and redid it tighter, out of habit, even though I was home.
The schedule was taped to the fridge with a pizza magnet. I stood in front of it and read tomorrow twice.
E. R. — 11-7, floor. That was me. Same dining area. Same brick wall and light wood tables in daylight. My initials looked small in blue ink. I touched the edge of the paper where it curled. I thought about calling out, about texting Marisol to swap. My thumb hovered over my phone in my pocket and then I put the phone face-down on the counter instead.
I wasn't hungry but I heated soup because that was routine. While the microwave turned, I opened the cabinet above the fridge, the one I couldn't reach without the step stool. I dragged the stool over, its metal feet scraping, and stepped up.
Behind the spare paper towels was the flat portfolio case. Black, zippered. I'd put it up there the day I moved in so I wouldn't have to look at it.
I set it on the counter and didn't open it at first. The microwave beeped. I let it beep. I unzipped the case halfway.
The diploma was inside its tube, capped. Universita degli Studi di Firenze. My name in formal print on the copy I'd kept out once. I didn't take the full sheet out. I just slid the copy halfway and looked at the seal. The paper was heavier than anything else I owned. For a second I could smell that classroom in September, chalk and rain through open windows.
I thought about what it had cost to keep it hidden. Student payments that auto-drafted on the fifteenth. The reason I needed the 11-7 and the overtime when I could get it. The reason I couldn't afford to get fired for mouthing off to a man in a gray suit.
I zipped it back up. I stood on that stool and put it back behind the paper towels, pushing it farther back this time, until my fingertips barely touched it.
I ate standing up. The soup burned my tongue and I didn't care. I kept seeing the table. Not his face so much as the tray. The white cup with the yellow arches sweating a ring onto the black plastic. The small burger box I never opened for him. If I had just set it down and walked away, none of the rest would have happened.
But I hadn't. I'd looked down, then up. I'd steadied my breathing the way my grandmother taught me before exams. In through the nose. Out slow. I'd held still.
My phone lit up on the counter. Marisol: u good? Manager said that guy was trouble.
I stared at it. I typed back: I'm good. See you tomorrow. Then I deleted the last sentence and retyped it. See you tomorrow. I hit send before I could change my mind.
After I washed the bowl, I checked the door again. Still locked. Chain on. I tested the handle. It held. I did a slow walk through the apartment, the way I did when my nerves wouldn't settle. Bathroom lock. Window latch in the bedroom. Closet door shut. Rent envelope on the dresser with three twenties and a five, short of next week but closer than last month.
In the bedroom, my uniform for tomorrow was already hung on the closet hook. Maroon polo. Black pants. I touched the sleeve. It still smelled faintly of fryer oil even clean. I laid my apron over the chair, smoothed it flat, folded it once.
I sat on the edge of the bed and untied my hair again and let it fall. My scalp ached. I thought about quitting. Really thought about it. Calling in the morning, saying I was sick, then just not going back. Finding night cleaning work where I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Letting the dining room and the brick wall and the daylight belong to someone else.
Then I thought about standing at that table edge with empty hands and not stepping back. About choosing it.
May you like
I set my alarm for six forty. I plugged my phone in. I left the hallway light on, like I always did.
I wasn't going to disappear for him. If he came back tomorrow, he would find me on the floor, doing the job. That was the only place I could meet him where I still got to keep myself.
