1962, Tuesday, San Francisco, shortly after seven o'clock in the morning
I wake up covered in sweat with a racing heart. No one else is here, but that doesn't mean that no one else was in here while I was gone so I get up clumsily then bend down to look under the bed. I don't know what I expected, but not this. This nothing.
The phone rings but before answering I take a deep breath.
"Mark Hyra would have been a great husband for you."
"You say that about every single one when you surely are aware none of them were sufficient to meet my personal needs."
"I am your mother. Your argument is invalid. Now come home." She says so marked by a lack of interest with a mixture of hate coupled with disgust in her voice.
"No." I roll my eyes as I put down the phone then go to my left and turn on the water inside the white bathtub. Soon after taking off the white Antron slip I hop in the cold water, not bothering myself to turn it off yet. As I lie in there I run my hands down all the cuts and scrapes and bruises, feeling the scabs dissolve beneath my palms. I look at the blood coloring the water and I didn't like that it was leaving me.
Sometime later the water hits the floor so I spin the faucet the other way. I feel cold all up and down my spine as I try to remember his face trying to not drown in a state in which all hope is lost.
"I don't want to miss you."
It's after eight-thirty now and all I can think about is a stranger while feeling tired of the world.
After a few more moments, I stand up and look in the mirror. Nothing happens. I frown, walk to the balcony and exhale. A sensation such as tingling, tickling, pricking along with some kind of numbness lingers on my skin. I hear footsteps on the street but that didn't disturb me.
"Young lady you cannot stand outside naked, please cover yourself."
When I turn around to see who was yelling I also flash on the rest of the neighborhood there with the law enforcement officer. All nearby residents looked at me questioningly. Somehow, this is even worse but I manage to swallow the dryness in my throat and go back inside, carefully taking time to consider potential consequences and avoid risks. Still silent, I blink; I could still feel their disbelief.
"We could meet again somewhere."
How can I be enthusiastic about something but still sad?
Side note here - this is an Antron slip. It was popular in the 60's.
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