The Key and the Map

The key is in my coat pocket. I touched it four times in the last hour. Sunday and I had nothing booked, which meant eight hours alone with whatever was circling, and circling it was. The SUV under my fire escape at 9:42 — I walked out for the paper and there it was, driver's face tilted up at my window like he was waiting for a signal. I went back inside. I did not get the paper. I stood in my kitchen and watched him from the side of the blinds like a person I would normally call paranoid.

Then Hollis. My mother called and I had to listen to her say that name — a stranger's name, attached to me, asking questions about who I am. I gave her the cleaned version. I always give her the cleaned version. She worries about manageable things so I let her. It is the only way I know how to protect her from what I cannot manage myself.

The woman on Nostrand. Doorman said to be careful with girls who come to Park Avenue without references. She looked at me like I was the kind of problem that walks. I wanted to say I have references. I wanted to say I have a business license and a five-star average and twelve regular clients who trust me inside their closets. But I said nothing. I kept walking because that is what you do when you are already being watched.

She opened it. She is in Atlanta now. Six words on a prepaid phone and I sat at my table for eleven minutes. I did not move. I was thinking about who is "she" and what is "it" and whether the answer would make any of this feel less like falling. I still do not know.