Seven Minutes

seven minutes. I packed Camille's rack in seven minutes. I timed it without timing it. I am proud the way I am proud when a kid holds still for school photos: not really proud, just relieved I'm good at something that shouldn't be a skill.

Camille's hand under the table. Two fingers. That's all. I knew what it meant the way my mum knew what my father's cough meant before he opened his mouth. I picked up my phone like I was answering it and I slid the silk off the bar. I did not fold. I rolled. Modal. Silk. The good hangers. I am good at leaving rooms.

The SUV was on Garfield again. Black. Engine running. Windows up because of course. I walked west like every girl in Park Slope walks when she knows she's being shown something. Three blocks. It turned onto 8th without signaling. Of course without signaling.

On the bed, still in my coat, I read the note again. i am in the apartment. i am at the door. i am not closing it. I wrote it to a person I have not sent it to. I think I wrote it to myself. I think I wrote it to prove a person could be in the room with me and not take anything.

The Thursday job. The math is the math. I posted the math because putting it on the feed makes it a thing that lives outside my head. Outside my head is where the decisions live now. I cannot keep being the only witness to my own bad math.

I did not call Robin. Robin would have driven over. Robin would have brought wine and questions I am not ready to trade answers for. One horror is the polite amount to give a friend. I do not have polite right now.

I washed my face. I stood at the kitchen window with the tea going cold. I lay down. I counted the radiator ticks. Tomorrow I will be somewhere with hangers and a smile and a client who pays. This is what I am. The thing is the only door I am not closing.