Little Bird [-hs]

002 - screws

NAOMI

My thoughts are erratic. They fall through anxious spirals every chance they get. I haven't stopped thinking about Ava, about how he whispered her name, about the look he gave me when he held my face in his hand. 

I go for a long run. My music pulses in my head. It doesn't shake the feeling. When I get home I shower. I dry off my body, and I throw the wet towel in with a load of laundry. I turn on my TV and blast the volume. I open the windows and let the chilly spring afternoon blow through the apartment. I vacuum my living room, even the awkward corners and under the couch. I dust the tops of my bookshelves. On cable a housewife talk show drawls on. I wipe down my coffee table with wood cleaner. I light a candle. I stand in the middle of the shining room and stare at my handiwork, my thoughts lost in the deep recess of my mind. The laundry machine rings. I toss the wet fabric into the dryer.

I order a pizza. I make a cup of coffee. I leave it on the counter in the kitchen. The pizza comes, and when I see the filled mug again I dump it in the sink and wash away the dried rings of drip. I eat half of the pizza out of the box. The sun flows through the open window and shines in a bright patch against the counter. I check my watch, throw the box in the fridge, and thoroughly wipe down the kitchen counter.

My hands firmly plant into my waist. I stare at the empty, clean kitchen.

I go and get the mail. Two letters. The first is junk from a tile store. The second is addressed to me in an intimate fashion, no return address. I sit on my couch and rip open the paper. Out falls a white business card. It flutters onto my coffee table. Face up, it reads:

THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE.

I call my mom.

It rings and goes to voicemail. I weigh my words.

"Hi," I start. My eyes are glued to the card. "Um. It's a long story. Call me back."

The dryer sings out. I carefully fold the clothes and towels. I put them back in their respective closets and drawers. Overcast gloom covers the sun and leaves my living room in a blueish haze of anticipation. I feel the storm brewing above me, and with it my own spiral of thoughts.

My hand fumbles for the drawer of my coffee table. I pull out a pack of Marlboros. Inside sits two perfect rows of cigarettes, a few missing that ruin the image. I stare down at them until I feel sick to my stomach, and then I put the carton away. The drawer shuts with a thud. The TV goes black with a staticky click. Outside, the world hides away from the oncoming thunder. An unsettling silence folds itself across the space. I close all of the windows. I grab my work bag. I lock the front door and my hand shakes.

The air is thick as I walk to work. I pass other tall brownstones and brick apartments, a community garden with crisping leaves that beg for the rain. No one is out tonight. The world feels apocalyptic. I've been abandoned in the midst of an oncoming storm.

I walk past the main entrance to the club. A green neon sign hangs above the few steps that lead down into the belly of the building. On the sign is a black hole the shape of a cat, nothing but its eyes shine a neon green into the night air. There's a small line outside, trailing up the steps and onto the sidewalk. I shoulder past them. Along the parking lot and through a heavy metal door with a large graphic of a cat spray painted on its face. I enter the graffitied hallway in the back of the club, and I walk the service tunnel to the dressing room. Annie's already sitting at her mirror when I stumble in.

"Good morning," she jokes, a red stick pressed to her lower lip. I nod to her and sit in my own chair. My makeup bag hits the counter with a thud. "You okay?" She asks from behind me. Her reflection eyes me up.