Jolene, the Envelope, Thursday

Three years I have been buying coffee from that man on Nostrand and this morning he looked at me, looked at her, and decided we were the same transaction. Three years. He has watched me count out exact change. He has nodded at me on a hundred Wednesdays. Today his mouth said "tell your friend" like I had walked in behind her, like I had followed her through the door, like we were a pair booked together. I paid for both coffees because the last thing I needed was Jolene thinking I couldn't, and because the last thing I needed was the line behind us deciding which of us was the broke one. $11 gone. I handed her the cup with both hands and I did not blink and I need her to remember I did not blink.

He asked for her number. Four minutes behind me. Same lobby, same elevator bank, same man I have been dressing for eight months. I press the shirts his wife won't touch. I sorted his closet by color story last spring. He has never once smiled my name. He smiled hers like he had been waiting to be introduced. She told me on the way up like she was reading me the weather. I rode the second car alone.

The envelope is still sealed. I keep promising myself I will open it tomorrow and then I think about what is inside and I decide tomorrow is also fine. Whoever sold us into that room — I said us in my own head, which means I have started thinking of myself and Jolene as a unit again, and that is the part actually keeping me awake.