The Envelope I Won't Open

The coffee did it. I spilled my mug reaching for the envelope this morning and the stain lifted an embossing I hadn't seen — two lines, no name, a Park Avenue address. I photographed the corner while it was still wet. I put the envelope in a zip bag. I have been not opening it ever since.

That is the part I keep circling. I held it up to the F brownstone window in raking light this afternoon. Greta's house, where I have been pressing collars and stepping around things I don't name and being looked at like I am furniture that came with the booking. I held someone else's mail up to her window and I still did not open it. I brought it home. I put the brass key beside it on the counter. I laid out tomorrow's coat. I chose what I will wear to open a piece of mail. I am being absurd and I cannot stop.

I am afraid of what is inside. I am more afraid it is nothing.

Noelle hugged my knee. Imani's goddaughter, six, yellow dress, sunflower pin. She asked me to tie her shoe and when I was done she just leaned into me like I was a tree she trusted not to move. The whole month has been other people's doors and other people's rankings and one kid pressed her face against my leg and that is the thing landing hardest.

I called Denise and told her I was fine. I am always telling her I am fine. She does not believe me and we have this agreement where neither of us says it.