Authors: Kate Stewart
I close my eyes and try to take a breath, but it feels as though there's a band around my chest, like a python squeezing tighter. My vision tunnels. My shaking hands reach for my iPhone resting in the cup holder, the one with only one number in it. My palm slaps the red stop button firmly and I stagger away to the locker rooms as quickly as possible before my knees give way.
*
“Hey, honey . . . okay?”
The reaction is instant. My brain doesn't hear anything but that nickname said in a male voice. Pain crashes through my head within seconds of slamming it into the brick wall behind me, escape my only thought.
“Whoa, whoa. I just saw you run in here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
My ears pick up the whole sentence this time, heard over the sound of my racing heart and the blood rushing through my ears. I raise trembling hands to wipe the wet pieces of hair out of my face. Looking up, I see a huge man; broad shouldered, his muscles bulging as he squats on the floor in front of me. I move my feet closer to my body, bringing my knees to my chin. The guy watches me before slowly moving to rest his back on the wall beside me.
I try to breathe, but I can’t. There is a man close to me. A big man. I can't get air into my lungs. My ribs, already battered and feeling like they’re threatening to break, burn with their constriction.
Then something happens that makes me stop breathing altogether. He opens his mouth.
It takes me a few verses to make sense of it. He’s talking fast in a guttural, growly voice that surely isn’t natural. About the time his head starts to bob, I realize what he’s doing. He’s rapping.
His voice is deep, but he's doing it softly so that only I can hear him. He looks straight ahead as he says, “Breathe, darlin'. Breathe to the song.”
I stare at him with disbelieving eyes as he sings to the white wall in front of him, then take in a single breath through closed airways to ease the burn in my lungs. Eyeing him, I don’t even think I take in a single feature. I can’t tell you if his nose is bent, what color his eyes are, if he has non-existent lips or a scar over his eyebrow. To me he is a big blob of testosterone I want absolutely nothing to do with.
I slide my back against the rough wall behind me and put another foot between us. The man doesn't stop rapping. I don’t get all of the words, but there’s something about gardens and flowers, turning a rock into a mountain.
He looks ridiculous. His shoulders are moving now and, though his hands are resting on his knees, they move slightly to punctuate certain words.
I take in a breath. Then another. The man keeps the words flowing quietly as I put two more feet between us.
When he finally stops, my panic attack is over. I find myself asking, “What song is that?” I never talk to people.
The guy shrugs his big shoulders, not watching me. “
A Milli
.”
I feel my eyebrows edge up toward my hairline. There was no hesitation in his voice, never a stumble for such a fast song; one I remember slightly from high school.
I still can’t believe it, but don’t know why. It’s just surprising is all. “By who?” I ask him.
“Lil Wayne. You’ve never heard that song? No? Maybe? Well it was on my playlist when I saw you take off from the treadmill. It worked, didn't it?” he asks the white wall five feet away, avoiding eye contact.
“Yes, I guess it did.”
“Do you need me to call someone? A husband, or—“ He breaks off when I abruptly move farther away from him, putting me into the corner of the room. He puts his hands up slowly in surrender. “Or not. I saw the ring and thought . . . never mind, no husband.”
At the mention of him, I check my phone and see that I'm five minutes behind in my routine. I jump up and look around for the first time. We aren't in the locker room like I thought. We're in the family bathroom that's one door before the women's locker room.
Guess I didn't make it.
The man stands up slowly as well, trying not to look threatening. And failing. He's just so big.
“I need to . . . I need . . . move. Please,” I tell him. He's standing in front of the door and I can't move past him. My body physically won’t get any closer. He seems to understand and slides along the wall, moving in the opposite direction of me with his eyes down. As soon as my fingers can reach, I grab the handle and wretch the door open, then dive out of the exit, running to the next doorway, and into the locker room. The one I thought I was entering the first time.
After grabbing my purse from my locker, I leave the room by another exit, looking to make sure the man isn't around. I don't see him. I exit the hotel and walk swiftly, anonymously, through the crowded streets on my way to the subway. Once I've swiped my card and taken a seat, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth together.
I can do this. One more day to get through until the gym tomorrow. Can’t quit. I can do this.
When the train stops, I stand up and move with the other bodies toward the exit.
I let myself in the front door of my house. The muscles in my legs vibrate with fatigue as I race up the stairs to get in the shower.
I have to hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
Under the water, I quickly wash my hair and body, picking up a razor with shaking hands. On the second leg I catch the skin by my ankle, instantly causing blood to flow.
“Fuck. Shit. No no no,” I whisper and rub at the cut, trying to wash it out of existence. My voice sobs out, “Please, please, please.” But the blood flows.
I take the razor and finish the job of shaving that leg before getting out and slathering myself with lotion. Now I can slow down.
I dress in a blood-red pencil skirt, white blouse, and red cardigan before doing my hair. Once I'm made up, I head down the stairs to dust and clean. In the early evening, the doorbell rings. I accept delivery of the food I ordered that morning, and set the dining room table.
When I’m pouring wine into a glass, I hear the security alarm beep as the front door opens.
“Honey, I'm home!” I hear a chuckle, just like always.
I go to greet my husband at the door as he's setting down his brief case, then offer my cheek and smile. “Hello, Jeremy. How was your trip?”
Jeremy smiles, his bottom teeth crooked. “Long. Too long. How was your day?”
I move to take off his tie and put it on the front entry table. “It was fine. Ran ten miles.”
“That's great! What's for dinner?” he asks as we move to the dining room.
“Pinsky's. An arugula salad with shaved asparagus and lemon parsley dressing. The main course is spinach and ricotta crepe lasagna,” I say as I grab the prepared plates from the side bar.
Jeremy sits at his end of the table and moves the linen napkin into his lap. “Sounds marvelous, honey.”
I set a bowl in front of him before moving to my end of the table. After placing my napkin in my lap and crossing my ankles under the chair, I look up with a smile. “What should we toast to tonight?” I ask him.
“To a happy family.” Jeremy smiles at me and we lift our glasses slightly. We can't clink them because we're so far apart, having two candles and four place settings between us.
As I go to take my first bite of salad, Jeremy's voice interrupts me, “How was the gym today?”
I put my fork down and place my hands in my lap before answering, “It was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Shit, was that too much?
His face tilts slightly to the side. “Nothing?”
My heartbeat picks up as I look him in the eyes and lie, “No. I ran, I went home.”
He nods as he picks up his wine glass, taking a sip before placing it delicately down onto the white tablecloth again. “It's just that . . . Barry was at the gym this morning. He texted me. I suppose he was coming in as you were leaving. He said you were pale and running. I just want to make sure nothing was awry.”
My stomach feels like a boulder has just bounced off of the bottom of it and shot straight up into my throat. “My locker was jammed. It put me behind and I didn't want to worry you, or miss my train.”
His eyes look relieved. “Well, that's fine then. Did you report the problem with staff there?”
I shrug slightly. “No, the corner of my purse got caught in the track. I'll be more careful.”
“Alright then. Eat, you must be starving.” Jeremy picks up his fork, and I do the same.
We eat in silence. After dinner, he leaves to his office while I clean the kitchen to make everything perfect again.
Hours later, after I've performed my nightly routine, I lie on the bed. Naked. My mind is already drifting to another place when I feel hands on my feet, gliding up my legs. Those hands reach my knees before moving back to my feet. I remain impassive until I feel fingers move over one spot repeatedly. The place I nicked my ankle. I feel my body starting to lock up, my muscles pulling tight.
“What is this?” Jeremy asks me in a soft voice.
I swallow before answering. “I used a new razor today and wasn't careful enough.”
His fingers rub over the spot, causing it to sting sharply. “That's twice today you weren't careful. Is there anything I need to know? Something that will explain your distractions?”
I shake my head. Air’s not flowing through my lungs as easily as minutes before. “No, Jeremy. The thing with my locker frazzled me. I'll do better.”
He nods, his fingers still moving over my ankle. “I know you will. Do you know what brings focus?”
I look at my husband and start to tremble. “Please. I'll do better. Please.”
“Pain. Pain brings focus, honey.”
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