The envelope didn't move

The lobby at 8:14. A man I dressed for a Hamptons wedding two summers ago crosses the marble with his wife and says my last name out loud. Williams. Like he was pointing. His wife turned and looked at me the way you look at a woman you've decided is a category, and I know that look — I used to be on the other side of it when I was the one being looked at. Now I'm the one who gets named in lobbies for a living, and the bandaged hand I walked in with is the least of what I wanted to hide.

Mrs. Adler — my standing Friday client on the Upper East Side — her three-year-old granddaughter fixed me. Plastic tiara. She pulled my sleeve and held it up for me to put on my own head. So I did. I let a toddler crown me in a Park Avenue apartment and it was the cleanest thing that happened all day. I smiled like a stylist. I meant it like something else.

Three o'clock. Unknown number. Two weeks. I knew before I swiped. Pereira. I walked to his building at five with three hundreds counted visible in my palm so Gladys wouldn't have to fumble, and I handed them over without a word. The debt is shorter than I expected by now. That is not a flex. That is just where I am.

The envelope is still in my tote by the door. Same weight. Same color. I noticed it when I came in and I did not pick it up. I posted the selfie anyway. Hands in the frame. Hoops in. The door is still unlocked. The alarm is set for 5:45. I am not asleep.