I heard Jason talking out in the hallway to some stranger yesterday. He’s going out of town for a while, catching a flight around three thirty. I’m waiting for him to leave so there’s no chance I’ll run into him.
Nervously, I finger the hem of my shirt; odd for me to wear anything but my robe or sweats inside my apartment. But right now, I’m in a black sweater with little embroidered green flecks all over. My jeans are new. Well, they were new three years ago when I first bought them. I never even opened the package. They languished in a corner of my closet, but today is the day to wear them.
My mother’s voice floats into the ether. Why do you wear such dark and dreary colors, Jules? You’re a bright spring! But you dress like the sludge at the bottom of the ocean.
I give another cursory sniff under my arms to make sure I’m not about to offend the general public, and I breathe in a sigh when I realize I smell as fresh as the sea breeze. Usually, not so much the case.
I’ve showered, that’s why. Got up first thing in the morning and shuffled myself inside the little glass stall in the corner of my bathroom. I’ve used all the best soaps and lotions too.
My skin is still feeling a little rough though. Scaling off a bit like I’m drying out or something. That, with the blue veins, has me wondering what’s been going on with my body lately.
I slathered on extra lotion.
Jesus fuck Jason, will you fucking leave already?
Finally, my ears perk up at the sound of his door. Then heavy footsteps.
I clamber to my feet and peer out the peephole to see Jason and his tightly trimmed hair and workout pants trotting to the elevators.
Thank fucking god. He’s gone.
I wait another ten minutes, just to be safe. And then, for the first time in weeks, I turn all the locks one by one, finally pull the chain from its little brass holder, and open my front door. The cool air from the hallway catches me first. I’m unused to the smell anymore. I breathe in deeply and struggle a little. Maybe I have allergies. Then, I scurry out to the hallway, circling the drain of the stairwell, and suddenly . . . I’m outside.
Sheepishly, I stroll up to George’s shop, meeting him at the counter. His eyebrows go up when he sees me.
“Jules, so good to see you out and about. And looking so . . .” He puts out a hand.
I smile, looking at him for as long as I can stand, then look down at my hands again. “Black coffee, please,” I interrupt before he can finish his observation.
Yeah, I know I’m not usually showered or dressed in outside clothes or wearing walking shoes. George might try to be kind to me, but it doesn’t mean I want any comments on my appearance.
In fact, one of the reasons I stopped leaving my apartment at all is because of the comments. I just became so sick of everyone always having a fucking opinion on how I look.
“Enjoy . . .” George hands me the coffee. Same old look of concern on his face as always.
I almost turn back to my apartment out of habit. Just as I’ve done hundreds of times before. But this time, I close my fist in my pocket.
I’m not going back to my apartment today.
I’m not scurrying back to the darkness.
Instead, I’m finding Mack.
***
Kate gave me Mack’s address. I don’t know his specific unit, but I’m sure I can find out. The building is huge, but so is each individual apartment. He lives on the fifth floor, and there are only five other units on the floor.
Finding the right unit isn’t the hurdle. The hurdle is . . .
I look down the sidewalk. The sky is gray and cold. I’m almost unused to the cold anymore, keeping my apartment at the same moderate and almost balmy temperature every day. Can I even adjust to cold weather anymore, or have I gone completely cold-blooded?
My veins glow especially blue and eerie beneath the natural light.
Ugh, gross.
Come on, Jules. You can do this. You used to do this all the time before. You used to ride the subway in New York for your go-sees. You used to take the L in Chicago. Now, you can walk seven blocks to this apartment. You can do it.
What did your old therapist say? A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.
She really did love a platitude, but hey, they come in handy every now and then.
With some effort, I push one foot in front of another. George is probably staring at me from behind his counter with that concerned look on his face. The weight of his judgment barrels down on me, even if I can’t see it. The weight of everyone’s judgment everywhere . . . And yet . . .
Another step, and another.
Step, step, step, step, step.
And before I know it, I’m past my building to the end of the block on the edge of the sidewalk and the street, a pedestrian sign about to turn green. It flickers, and I walk again.
I’m doing it! My blood is pumping, the world around me blurs green and white and gray and blue, and my hand is balled up in unmovable fist at my side, but nevertheless, I progress.
Forward and onward. I shutter my gaze. Avoid the wandering eyes of onlookers. Especially the men. I pull the hood from my coat over my head. Squeeze my cup of coffee. Swallow tight. Trot ahead. Push faster and faster.
By the time I reach the building, my nerves are shot, knees trembling, lungs heavy.
But also . . . holy shit.
I haven’t gone this far in years!
