Fugue #138

Ana is getting ready. She tosses her robe onto the bed - onto the cat who’s laying there staring there, uninterested in her, but still judgmental. He’s annoyed when he has to crawl out from under this cover, and he hops off the bed and up onto the chair (his chair) next to the window (his window).

She takes five running steps to the running shower. Close the curtain, which catches the draft through the apartment and sticks to everything - arms, belly, and legs, making it hard to shave. Then soap suds everywhere, head to toes. Then shampoo, rinse, conditioner, rinse. Stand there, letting the hot water wash everything away. A few minutes more.

She takes five running steps back to the bedroom and looks at herself in the mirror. She pulls back her hair and tilts her head. And she can feel it begin. Panic, until she can’t breathe, like a weight is on her chest. She has doubts about everything, and she starts to cry.

Paul will be here soon - how soon? She’s not dressed.

Get dressed.

I can’t move.

You can. You can. You have to. Now.

Lotion, panties, a sundress, a brush through her hair. A chair by the window, and folded legs. Now, wipe the tears away and breathe. Don’t worry, everything will be ok.

He rings up. "Come in, please," she buzzes him in.