Eight hundred and no bruise

He put his shoulder into mine and I counted it. Not the money — I knew that number before she opened her mouth. Eight hundred is clean. Eight hundred leaves no mark on the bank statement. But the shoulder thing — that was the real transaction. That was him saying: you felt this, didn't you. And I did. I felt it all the way down the hall and I will feel it on the elevator and I will feel it tomorrow when I sit up wrong.

The guard said we have a lot of visitors today. He has been saying this since I started booking this building. He knows my name. He knows I come every other Wednesday. He said it loud because he wanted her to hear. And I walked past him like I didn't hear it and that was the worst part — not the humiliation, but how practiced I am at swallowing it.

Tonight I stood on my own pavement. The lamp is mine. The key is mine. The envelope is mine. None of it went anywhere. I have been holding this thing since August and every night I stand outside under my own light like some kind of patient animal waiting for a door to open. The door is right there. I have the key. I have the note. I have the envelope and the brass key and the draft note and I am not pressing send. I am not opening it. I am not walking back to that tower.

The silk top photo came out clean. Good angles. Good light. Nobody would know I cooked pasta alone at a table with an unopened envelope beside my plate like a second plate for a guest who isn't coming. Nobody would know I stood at the window for ten full minutes watching the lamp and thinking about a shoulder I am never going to report.