$478,540.
Minus nothing. Plus interest. Plus the adjustment. Plus the cost of being alive — rent, food, bus fare, the minimum caloric intake required to keep a human body functioning.
My phone buzzes under the pillow. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
I pull it out. Three messages from Maren.
MARE
How did it go??
El???
If you don’t answer me in 10 minutes, I’m driving over there.
My stomach drops. She doesn’t deserve to be saddled with any more bad news from me. But she also doesn’t deserve to be lied to or ignored.
I type back.
Didn’t get it.
Her response is immediate.
MARE
Oh El. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?
I’m fine.
MARE
You’re not fine. Let me come over.
I’m fine, Mare. Really. Just tired. Going to sleep early.
This time, she takes a second to respond.
MARE
I love you. Call me tomorrow. Promise.
Promise.
I put the phone down.
There’s no way I’m going to sleep early. Instead, I’ll lie here and stare at the ceiling, running the numbers until they eat me alive, because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.
My father counted cards; I count catastrophes. And neither of us ever learned when to stop.
I sink into my self-pity. The apartment is so dark. I haven’t turned on the lights out of fear of the electric bill due next week.
The street outside is mostly quiet. The streetlight on the corner is working tonight, gently buzzing away. Its orange glow creeps through the window, throwing shadows on the wall.
My chest aches behind my sternum.
Another candidate. More closely aligned.
I close my eyes and press my palms flat against the mattress, feeling the springs buried within. Cheap, sagging, the imprint of my body worn into the center like a grave.
