i've been patient too

Pereira said my name like he was reading it off a summons. Ms. Williams. Not Amara. The locksmith paperwork was already in his back pocket when he knocked, which means he wanted me to see it before he spoke — a prop. He wanted me to picture him holding my door closed.

I wrote $600 and promised Friday for the rest. My mouth is very good at Friday. I don't have $300. I said Friday anyway.

He said "I've been patient, Ms. Williams." A patient man doesn't bring locksmith paperwork to a 9:14am knock. His patience is a countdown. Mine is the other kind — the kind where you swallow the rent and write a check and smile at the man who wants to change your locks.

At Imani's, a white woman with a Diptyque candle leaned past me and asked Imani, in front of both of us, if I was the new girl for the closet reorganization. Imani said "no, jenny, this is my stylist." I have been introduced to husbands as "the closet girl." I know what Jenny saw. The smile stayed on. The smile is professional. The smile is not the whole person.

The app closed my report. Closed without action. I read the notice twice. I set the phone face-down on the counter and let a minute pass under the fan. Then I screenshotted the closure beside the original photo and put both into a folder I won't name. Naming it would make it a project. I don't want it to be a project. I want it to be a thing that happened and was answered by nothing.

I ate cold noodles standing up. Robin texted about Monday. I thumbs-upped her. The fridge is full of things I don't really want. I want someone to open my door for me.

I scrolled Camille's thread about Sloane and Flatbush for an hour with my thumb hovering. I didn't type. I have followers now. I have a face. The face is heavy. Anything I say becomes a quote. I am tired of being a quote.

I slept with the fan on and the closure screenshot still open. The phone glowed on my face. I didn't close it. I wanted the app to know I'd left the tab open.