Page 39 of Soft Erasure

In the glass of the coffee table, between me and the lobby camera, a reflection. Penelope’s tablet, tilted. Penelope’s hand. And a second hand. Not Penelope’s, not mine. A man’s hand, the cuff of a white shirt, a line of platinum at the third knuckle, a thread of green at the band.

The hand was reaching for the tablet’s I AGREE button.

The hand was Matthew’s.

The hand pressed it.

The me on the chair was not pressing it. The me on the chair had her hands in her lap.

I ran it twice, stopping the frame where the green on the cuff was sharpest, and took a screenshot. I saved it to a memory card and labeled it.

lobby_trim_A3E7_caldren_press_I_AGREE.png

The phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN (I.C. relay): Hide the card. Sugar canister. Deep in. Lid back on.

I did it. I poured the sugar into another container, laid the card flat in the bottom of the canister, poured the sugar back over it, and pressed the lid home. I put it back on the shelf.

The number on my wrist held at 76.

The phone buzzed.

M. CALDREN (08:31): Eat. The tray is on its way. We can talk about the welfare check at ten if you want. No Deep. Just water.

He didn’t text like an angry man, or a refused one. He texted like a man who had built the refusal into the schedule. He had a Tuesday for refusals and a Wednesday for recoveries. He had a script for women who said no Deep without my permission. It sat in the column next to the script for the women who didn’t.

But the script didn’t say just water. It didn’t say if you want. He had added those. They cost the program nothing, and he had put them there for me. The schedule was for everyone. The soft words were mine.

I didn’t text back.

I cracked the front door. The hall was empty. Nothing on the mat. I closed it and waited.

At eight fifty-six, a knock. A gardener’s knock, knuckles flat, careful not to wake the next room.

I cracked the door. The chain held.

In the gap, a man. Late fifties. Skin that had spent thirty years outside. A tan vest over a denim shirt. He held a watering can.

He didn’t look at me. He looked at the carpet where the wall met the floor, and spoke to it.

“Ms. Vale.”

“Yes.”

“I do the orchids. Water on Tuesdays. The one in your foyer needs an inch.”

“There’s no orchid in my foyer.”

“There will be by ten. Penelope’s bringing it up. She runs late. I’m punctual.”

He did the flowerbeds, not the apartments. The orchids inside were a woman’s job. He knew that. He had not come about an orchid.

He tipped the can so the long spout came through the gap, the body of it staying in his hands on his side of the door.

“There’s a bag down the spout,” he said, to the carpet. “Take it. Put a Post-it in its place. Anything. The weight has to match.”

I worked two fingers into the spout. A foil packet sat just inside it, the size of a stick of gum. I drew it out and palmed it, folded a Post-it small, and fed the Post-it down the spout in its place. He drew the can away.