Matthew appears in the archway, holding my clothes in a neatly folded pile.His face is a blank mask.His eyes when they briefly meet mine, are distant.Utterly unreadable.There’s no flicker of regret.No hint of the storm that raged minutes ago.
He walks up to the table and places my jeans and sweater on the polished wood surface in front of me.His actions precise and detached.
He retrieves kitchen towels from a drawer and casually tosses them over the worst of the spill, hiding it from view.“Don’t worry about this.Cleaning company comes on Wednesdays.”He pulls back the cuff of his crisp white shirt, glancing pointedly at the watch on his wrist.“I have a deposition I can’t be late for.”
He picks up his briefcase off the island.“Take your time.Maria won’t be here for another hour.”
And then he’s gone.
His footsteps echo briefly on the foyer tiles.Then, the heavy thud of the front door closing, leaving me alone in the crushing silence with my clothes.A mug of coffee I barely touched, a towel-covered mess on the floor, and a chilling emptiness where the intimate warmth of last night used to be.
I lean forward, dropping my head onto my folded sweater.
“Fuck.”
FORTY
PUSHING THE HEAVY glass door, I feel its familiar resistance grounding me in the present moment.
The first thing that registers is the noise.Then, the warmth washing over me as I step inside Maddy’s Place.Bright midday sunlight streams through the large front windows, reflecting off the polished floor, temporarily dazzling after the numb haze that shrouded the last few hours.
Like any given Wednesday, my café is packed and loud.
Normal.
The clatter of ceramic mugs on saucers.The insistent hiss and rhythmic pulse of the espresso machine working overtime.Dozens of conversations weaving into an indecipherable buzz.The rich aroma of dark roast and pastries.
Scents and sounds that usually wrap me in comfort, today feel abrasive against the backdrop of this morning’s emotional wreckage.
The sheer, unrelenting normalcy of it all is an assault on my frayed senses.
My mind feels like it’s snapping back into focus from a great, fuzzy distance.Like surfacing too quickly from deep water.
I glance down at my jeans and sweater.
I barely remember putting them on.
Leaving Matthew’s house and driving across town through midday traffic is a complete blur.A mercifully numb autopilot must have taken over after he left the house.
Everyone here is living their ordinary Wednesday.Mine feels like it imploded somewhere between a shared shower, a shattered mug, and words thrown like knives.
Each step takes conscious effort.As if gravity has doubled its pull just for me.
I need to find Helen.Check in.Plaster on a smile for customers.I focus on the gleaming espresso machine.Solid, metallic, predictable in a world suddenly tilted off its axis.I try to project an air of purpose, of normalcy, that feels utterly fraudulent.
Up ahead, I see Grace at the register, busy handling a small lunchtime lineup.
Sidestepping the queue and avoiding Grace’s line of sight, I make a beeline for the entryway to the back room behind the service counter.Inside, Helen is reaching up for a large package of paper napkins, her back to me.
“Helen?”My voice comes out as barely more than a shaky whisper.
She spins around, startled, the package of napkins clutched between her hands.Her eyes fly wide.For a split second, pure shock chases away the worry.It’s followed instantly by a relief so palpable it seems to physically soften her features.
“Ames!Ay,Dios!You scared the life out of me!”she breathes, dropping the napkins onto a stainless steel prep table.“Where have you been?When I came in this morning and you weren’t here,mija,I started to imagine terrible things!I even called your phone more than once and always straight to voicemail!”
Right.My cellphone.
I fumble in my purse and pull out the dead device, showing her the blank screen.“Must have died sometime last night.Sorry.”
