You lead me to the shower and give me a towel. I strip and stare at my frail frame in the mirror on the back of your door. My ribs are sticking out and I am covered in bruises of varying shades. My eyes are sunk into my face and my lips are chapped, torn to shreds. Everything you loved about me has faded. I avoid smashing the mirror; simply because I know you won’t be happy with me if I do.
I step under the stream of water and turn it way up. Steam starts rising and I grab a washcloth, and scrub my skin until it reddens, and then I scrub harder.
I dry off and you knock at the door, asking me if I am almost done, because we need to talk. I hurry to dress in the same dirty clothes that haven’t been washed in weeks, pulling out the tiny piece of charcoal eyeliner I keep in my pocket. I draw thin lines under my eyes and smudge them, then open the door. I walk out on bare feet to the living room, and you are sitting on the couch, a notebook next to you, a guitar in your lap. I smile faintly as I remember you and I writing our own songs late into the night.
You ask me my name and I tell you. You offer yours in return. You set the guitar aside and move the notebook to the floor next to the stand. I sit on the edge of the couch, ready to bolt if need be. You tell me that you don’t want to see me out on the street. You ask how I got there, and I tell you the bare minimum: I wasn’t wanted anywhere else anymore. You frown at this, the edges of your mouth pulling down. I remember every time you frowned at me – when I hurt myself, when I got high, when I hurt you, when you hurt me, when you said good bye for that last time before – no. You are saying something and I try to pick up the conversation where we left it. You are telling me something about a job, at a bookstore? You call my name and ask if I heard anything of what you said. I feel a blush creep up my cheeks as I shake my head no. You repeat yourself.
And I can’t believe what you are saying. You will let me stay here, I just have to get a job. But you barely know me, I tell you. I want to know why. You tell me because if you had given this chance to someone else, things would have been different. I wonder what you mean at this but don’t question it. Lord knows there are questions I don’t want you asking. You tell me $100 every 2 weeks, working at $10 an hour for 8 hours, 5 days a week. I do the math quickly in my head and that leaves me with $300 every 2 weeks, $150 a week. Under the table, you add. You don’t want to have to offer insurance to everyone else who works there. So if anyone asks, I am a volunteer, you say. I nod my head and smile at you. You smile back and for a second, everything in the world is all right again.
~~~
You drive me to the book store, a small run-down building that smells like mildew and has cracks in the wall. Books overflow the shelves and stack up on the floor. You tell me you know it isn’t much but it’s your home and you love it. I smile and tell you it’s perfect.
And it is. You and I used to go to a bookstore similar to this, but it smelled worse. However, this place has more books. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, memories of dreary afternoons spent looking for the perfect book, the best adventure, the scariest tale. You would read to me softly, my head resting on your chest and eyes closed. I would listen to the beat of your heart, the whisper of your words. I feel tears stinging my eyes and force them back. Now is not the time to have a mental break.
You lead me to the back room, books shoving each other for room on the shelves, and close the door. You tell me to keep following you and be careful not to knock over anything. We wind up in a small office and you tell me to sit down while you dig through drawers. You pull out a small packet of paper and direct me to read over it. I look at the cover. It is a user manual for one of those large, free-standing printer/copier/scanners. You tell me I can start by figuring out what is wrong with your printer. I bite my lip and refrain from telling you technology hates me.
