1. Rayna I See Him. but I Pretend I Don't. He's Gotten Better at Hiding, and So Quickly. Now It's a Challenge to Spot Him
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1. Rayna I see him. But I pretend I don’t. He’s gotten better at hiding, and so quickly. Now it’s a challenge to spot him. It doesn’t help that he has a new truck. I was looking for his old Camaro. I panic a little when I don’t see it. Maybe he’s become more desperate and found a better, closer, darker place to hide. He’s right there, everywhere I go. On my way to work, when the roads are crammed with last-minute drivers all fighting and screaming at their steering wheels with their coffee breath. On my way home, when the roads are lined with children and school buses and the drivers are playing that game in their heads. That pedestrian one where groups are fifty points, elderly are ten points, an adult is twenty points, and a child is zero points. In his old Camaro, on early mornings when the roads were just waking up, he hung back. Not far enough to lose me, but far enough where it could be any car back there, with its two headlights. But I knew it was him. When the streets were full, he was closer. Maybe behind that minivan, riding close. Close enough that his little f-body would disappear behind all the flailing children ignoring their headrest movie screens. A lane change locates him for me. A sudden merge lane, temporarily set up for some minor work around a manhole, and he’s forced in behind me. That big pickup truck. It suits him. Wonder where the old Camaro went? I see him. But I pretend I don’t. It’s better that way. Safer. If I were to catch his gaze in my rearview, act surprised, signal him to pull over and chat, he’d get better at hiding. I wouldn’t be able to spot him anymore. I park in my usual spot. He parks in his, in the office complex across the street. His truck is gone by the time I peek through the window not far from my desk. Three hours go by. I’m watching the clock, waiting. A call comes in, a local number. It’s business. I handle it while watching my phone screen, waiting for another line to flash. In five minutes, there it is. That unknown caller. Every day around this time. I hurry off the other line to get to it. Not that I need to, it’ll keep right on ringing until I answer. But I never let it go beyond five rings. Four is too short, six too many. “Hello?” I don’t bother with my usual answering spiel, how can I help you, and all that. I gave up after the sixth occurrence. It’s always silent. Eerily silent. I’ve never heard so much as a breath, a shuffle, a crackle of interference. I’ll bet anything he mutes his side so he can say everything he longs to, to pretend I can hear him, to hope it accidently gets unmuted and he’s revealed, saving him from his guilt. I miss you. Why did you leave me? You look beautiful today. You know I love how good blue looks on you. Something like that. I imagine the strained sound of his voice, the tears choking his words. I let him hear the little sob that escapes me, a dry one, not too much for anyone else to notice. It’s just for him. I wonder what he thinks when he hears it. He certainly wouldn’t think it’s fear. He has no idea I’m aware of all this. I’ve made sure he’s oblivious to my awareness. Does he think I’m using this little phone glitch issue as a reprieve? Am I merely letting out a little pent-up anguish while no one’s looking? Does he think that I’m miserable and sad because I hate this job, my apartment, my boyfriend? He’s not wrong. I have the urge to run to him as I pull into my apartment parking lot. He’s six rows back in an apartment building farther down. He wouldn’t try to flee. How could he? I’d pin him with my gaze, and he’d sit there, squirming beneath it until I tapped on his window. When I’m in my apartment and settled, keys here, shoes there, that’s when he leaves. His exhaust makes a distinct faint rumble. I’m able to recognize him by the sound now. He won’t be back until late tonight, one last round before a few hours of sleep and he’ll be back, my morning commute caboose. Greg is passed out on the sofa by nine. I stare off in the distance, out the window, looking, but he isn’t out there. That faint rumble returns later that night, when Greg and I have slipped into bed. I smile when I hear it. Greg doesn’t notice, he’s a little too distracted. I wonder, what time is it? I wonder what thoughts are going through his mind right about now. He can see it. The little jiggle of the blinds as the headboard rocks into them. I know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, where his hands are and what they’re doing. I imagine I am him, watching the headboard knock the blinds. I feel his large hands tearing my sundress. His breath fogs the windshield. I see the darkness tainting his eyes, the blood drying over his left eye, a little around his lips. I imagine his eyes looking tainted like that right now. I imagine him thinking himself in this room, feeling his slick hands becoming something else. The orgasm startles me. Like a sneeze before the dust can tickle. I almost apologize. I almost expect Greg to say Bless you. 2. Banana Shoes In the beginning, there was darkness. Infinite darkness. “What’s your favorite day of the week, class?” Miss Steiner asks us. Everyone jumps from their seats with raised hands and waving fingers. I shrink into my yellow plastic chair with the wobbling, uneven legs. Sometimes I like to try to balance between two legs at once. It’s a game to keep the other two legs from touching the ground for as long as possible. I make it three clicks on the clock before Miss Steiner calls on me. “What’s your favorite day of the week?” She repeats her question, pointing at me. I squirm when everyone stares as if they’ve never seen me before. Hi, I’m Dave, I think back at them. My name is not Dave. My name is Damian. “Monday,” I say. It’s the best day of them all. Or so I thought. Everyone starts laughing and whispering. My ears feel like they have fire on them. “Quiet down, everyone. Why is that, Damian? What do you like so much about Mondays?” Miss Steiner asks. She has curly red hair and swamp-colored eyes of brown and green dead muck. When she bends down to me, I count the freckles on her face. “Because I can see all my friends.” One. Two. Three, four, five, six. She frowns at me. She knows I’m lying. Seven. Eight. There’s an extra big freckle on her right cheek that I count as three. The other kids make funny noises with their hands waving in the air like dead tree branches on a windy day. Everyone answers Saturday or Sunday. A few love today, Friday, because it’s family game night at their houses. I wonder if that means they all sit around and watch The Game Channel on TV. I don’t think we get The Game Channel. I’m not allowed to touch the TV. Everyone likes weekends because there’s no school. I hate weekends. I get so hungry on weekends. On Mondays, I like to ride the early bus so I can sit in the empty classroom with Miss Steiner. Sometimes she gives me half of her muffin or part of her banana. Once when she wasn’t looking, before the rest of the class came in, I pulled the banana peel from the trash after she threw it away. Before the late bell rang, I ran as fast as I could to hide in the bathroom. Banana peels taste like shoes somebody rubbed banana flavoring on. Today’s lunch is pizza and applesauce and juice. When no one is looking, I’m going to put the applesauce and juice in my shirt for this weekend. We all stand single file at the door. Miss Steiner squeezes my shoulder when she walks by doing a head count. I hope she doesn’t see the face I make when it hurts. In the cafeteria line, where the food smells are like perfume on the big lunch ladies, I’m handed a tray with a rectangle of pizza, a milk, and a cup of applesauce. Men don’t cry. Ever. There’s no lid on the applesauce. If I put it in my shirt now, it’ll get all over the place. I can’t take the milk home either. The cafeteria gets blurry, everything looking like blobs to my tear-filled eyes. I follow a blob to sit at a bigger blob. I took milk home once. I kept it in my backpack until I couldn’t stand the hunger anymore and drank it in one gulp one Saturday night.