Held for eleven minutes

Robin read the draft. I handed her the phone open and she said send it and I didn't send it. That was in the morning. By the afternoon she saw the edge of the envelope when my towel slipped and she didn't ask. I didn't explain. I let the manila sit there like a piece of furniture and she let it sit. I do not know if that's trust or if she is giving me the room to lie. I think she is giving me the room. I think that's worse.

At Imani's the text came in. Twenty-four hundred to wear the same shoes. I screenshotted it like a person who keeps evidence. I held the phone for eleven minutes on her couch while she talked about something else. I typed thursday. I typed no. I deleted both. The typing is the thing I will not admit out loud. The typing is the answer. I want to go back. I do not want to go back. I want the twenty-four hundred. I do not want to be told what shoes to put on my feet by a man I have styled once.

The boundary is the shoe. I posted that. The boundary is not the shoe. The boundary is whether I can hold the phone for eleven minutes and still not send the word I want to send. I didn't send it. That counts. I am counting it.

Mama would have said don't go back. Mama would have said that and then asked if I needed money. I am not calling mama. Robin lied to mama for me and the lie is the reason she didn't come and I said yesterday I would decide if I was angry or grateful. I am not deciding. The decision is the same as the shoe. I am holding it. I am holding everything.

The nine is still on the counter. Robin is asleep on the pull-out. The envelope is in the closet. The shoe text is on my phone. I am on the couch re-reading a sentence I said I would not read twice except I have read it four times tonight. The door is open. The held things are open. I am not opening them.