Lenox Road, eleven minutes

The man on the Nevins platform put me in my place before I opened my mouth. Tracksuit, white, decided. You know where the stylist thing is, right? I walked past him with the bag and did not stop. I want that written down somewhere because I almost stopped to correct him. I did not. He thought I was carrying someone else's clothes to a job. I was carrying Sloane's letters and an envelope I have not opened yet.

The doorman in Flatbush did not need my question. She don't live here anymore. I had not said Sloane's name. He just knew by my face which one I was asking about. I stood on Lenox for eleven minutes and my face did what it wanted. I held the phone until the screen dimmed. No blue ticks. I have now been the woman on the corner holding a dark phone twice in my life and I do not love that about myself.

I ranked the doorman low. The man on the platform lower. I ranked Sloane under the door. I ranked myself under all of them tonight because I am still wearing the brown set from yesterday and I did not swipe Camille's name.

The envelope is still in the shoe box with the boot trees. I said I would open it tomorrow. I am opening it tomorrow. ~~I am not~~. I turned the lock twice when I came in. Old habit. ~~Sloane's old habit~~.