@holywitchkid
On Saturdays Hannah wakes up and makes her morning coffee with shaking hands. She swirls her spoon clockwise, and then counterclockwise, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea that rolls over her. That cup of coffee never gets drunk. Eventually she’ll let go of a white knuckled grip on the countertop and finally move to the entryway of her home, where whatever boxes or envelopes she’s received that week wait to be assessed. There’s always at least one, sometimes more, all of them without names or addresses. Of course she’s known since the first time she saw him at the crystal store, that these were all coming from Malcolm. But it still unsettles her, haunts her, makes her chest feel tight. She opens them all but never uses a single item within. They go into a cardboard box that gets sent down to the basement never to be looked at again. Then she considers going outside for fresh air, but even that comes with risks as she never knows when she might run into him, what level of chaotically cruel and derisive he might be feeling that day.
But it’s her birthday in two days and she refuses to be a grown woman trapped in her own home by a man who has left scars on her spirit. Not again, not again, once was enough. And yet there is a twisted part of her that craves the run ins, the sight of his face even when it is masked and so far away from the face of the man she used to kiss good morning.
Morning, it’s still morning, and there’s time to get to the farmer’s market before it shuts down. Crowded busy places are better, loud and noisy and if he’s there it’s harder to hear him, he doesn’t take over the space, take over all her senses. Besides, she owed her neighbor, Ethel, an apple pie and she was fresh out of the main ingredient. She manages to get apples, oranges, fresh watermelon, and then she spots him. Normally it’s her goal to pretend she doesn’t see him, to not give him an ounce of attention until he rips it from her by force. Maybe today is different because she spent last night looking over the pictures from her first birthday she’d spent with him, thinking of how happy she’d been, how happy he’d made her.
Today, this time, she marched over to him first, eyes burning with intention. “I need you to stop. The packages, the envelopes. I can handle this part, no matter how mean and nasty you get I can handle this...but the shit in my mailbox, on my doorstep. I need you to stop, Malcolm.”
