Iris wakes up thinking about work and wishing she wasn’t.
She stayed up late editing and worrying about today. Right now, she just wants to stay in bed longer than she should, staring at the ceiling, Brisa purring against her stomach like a small, warm weight.
She gets up anyway and makes coffee without really thinking about it. Oat milk. Extra hot espresso. Cinnamon because it makes her feel fancy. Brisa follows her, dramatic and loud, like she’s never been fed in her life. Iris makes haste of serving the queen her vet approved food moistened with bone broth. The damn cat eats better than she does.
She opens the window even though it’s cold. The air hits her face hard and helps clear her thoughts, giving her nervous system the shock it needs. She leans there for a second, mug in her hands, and thinks about the light in the space where she’ll be shooting later. The way Andi holds still when she’s being watched. The fact that this job actually matters. The fact that she needs it.
That thought sticks longer than she wants it to.
After downing her coffee, she showers and gets dressed. Pulls her hair back and then lets it fall again. Camera bag by the door. She checks it, even though she already checked it last night. Film. Batteries. Everything accounted for.
She stops at Lavandería on her way out. The place smells like laundry detergent and heat. Her mom is there alone, folding, radio murmuring in Spanish. Iris notices, again, that her dad isn’t there; how empty the other side of the room feels. They don’t work together anymore and haven’t in a while. Her mom doesn’t say anything about it. Neither does Iris.
“Deliver this on your way,” her mom says, handing her a garment bag like it’s nothing.
“Yeah,” Iris says. Always yeah.
Outside, she walks faster than she needs to while the garment bag swings against her leg. On the train platform, she puts her earbuds in and presses play. Home Is a Fire. The first few notes undo something in her chest.
She’s not thinking about the shoot anymore. She’s eight again. Bare feet on broken tile that’s gritty with sand. Her abuela in the kitchen, plantains sizzling, her voice filling the space with song. Filling Iris to the point she’s overflowing at the brim. She can see it so clearly it hurts. She swallows back the spillage, hard, but feels her eyes fill before she can stop it.
She turns her face away. Blinks. Breathes. The train roars in. Doors open. The song cuts off.
Her stop in Midtown. She escapes the darkness of the subway station as the city rushes back in, loud and impatient and alive. Iris steps onto the sidewalk, camera bag secure on her shoulder, and her sadness folded away carefully where it belongs.
