The door was open two inches

She doesn't defend me. The tenant on four. The guard said she and the tenant looked and chose the elevator over my name. I rode up alone with it in my chest, the same place I keep the other things I don't say out loud in apartments.

I pinned a hem at 10:15 with hands that did not shake because shaking is a luxury I don't get in that room. The workroom door was open two inches too wide and through the gap I saw the husband at the end of the corridor, phone low against the wall, filming the door. My door. I did not turn. I am writing it here because I will not say it out loud, not to Denise, not even to myself in the bathroom mirror. I just want the record.

Then noon. The bathroom run was a mistake or it was the only useful thing that happened all week. He slid a manila envelope into her handbag — the hostess, my client — and the color and the weight and the shape were the envelope I have not opened in my tote since the last job. Same. Identical. Whoever is paying for this is using the same packaging. I went back to the pins. I did not let my face do anything. I agreed to Saturday in a voice that sounded like a stylist who wants the follow-up booking, which is the only voice I own in that apartment.

Jolene and I are not a unit. I said us yesterday and I am un-saying it tonight. The man who asked for her number in the lobby — his wife won't touch the shirts I press — he is a different species of coward from this husband. The first one wants a girl. This one wants to be sure the door stays shut.