The bell chimes.
Kieran looks up from the register. “Morning, Nora.”
“Morning.”
That’s all. That’s the whole conversation. He doesn’t ask how I am. He doesn’t ask about my night. He just nods at me and I go.
The supply closet is small. A mop. A bucket. Rags. Bottles of blue liquid that smell like chemicals. I know each bottle by heart. The blue one is for glass. The green one is for floors. The yellow one is for bathrooms. I fill the bucket with hot water and I start.
The floors first. Long, even strokes. The mop head slaps the tile. Back and forth. Back and forth. I don’t think about anything.I just move. My arms know what to do. My back knows how to bend. My knees know how to hold me.
I sweep the dining area. Crumbs. Napkins. A single french fry someone dropped under a table. I sweep it all into the dustpan. Tip it into the trash.
Sometime between the sweeping and the restocking, Maeve brings me a cup of coffee. I didn’t ask for it.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know,” she says and walks away.
I drink it. It’s warm. It’s the first thing anyone has given me in a long time that didn’t feel like an apology.
The bathrooms. I save them for last. I don’t mind them. They’re small. Private. I scrub the sinks. I wipe the mirrors. I refill the soap.
I stand in front of the mirror and look at the woman looking back at me and wonder who she is becoming.
The afternoon passes the same way. Tables. Floors. Trash. Bathrooms. The hours fold into each other. My hands keep moving. My mind goes somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere Julian cannot find me.
At 4:15, I start watching the clock.
At 4:30, I stop.
I change my clothes. I re-comb my hair. I scrub my hands with the harsh soap. I smell my shirt.
At 4:45, I leave.
The walk home is different. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My hands are red from scrubbing. I do not care.
I unlock the front door at 5:00 exactly and start cooking. The smells fill the house. They cover everything. The coffee. The disinfectant. The secret.
At 7:30, Julian comes home.
Everything is exactly as he expects it.
Nothing is out of place. Nothing to raise an eyebrow. Nothing to trigger a doubt.
“How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“What did you do?”
“Not much.”
He sits down. I put dinner in front of him. He eats. He talks. I nod. I clear the plates. I wash the dishes. I fold the laundry.
There is no trace of the woman who leaves this house every day.
At ten, the light goes off. He rolls onto his side. The space between us is exactly a foot wide. Neither of us crosses it. Within minutes, he is asleep.
