Return from Home
The anxiety is back.
I silence my alarm on the first ring, before my SO is stirred from her sleep. I slither out of bed, removing the blanket from my body in quiet folds, each pull of a muscle gradual and patient, absent of all sound, for fear of waking the same. The showerhead dispenses the ritual, a morning steam, a hasty shave, an unsightly nick. I B&E tip-toe into my own bedroom, shuffling damp arms in a shadow of clothing. The retrieve pants of business casual, a button-up that releases from the clutches of fabric with a sound like turning paper. I ruin my stealth with the all too loud rattle of the goddamned belt. She stirs, I wait, her breath falls easy. Fade to the kitchen.
The math starts. Ten minutes till I need to be in the car, unless the street is busy. What’s morning traffic like now? Seven minutes to be safe. Add the ten minutes for remote parking, the crowding into the partial-capacity bus. Unless the spots are full and the walk is further. Fifteen minutes to be safe. How much is lunch? A $10 meal, but times five. Lunch box. Leftovers. Snacks. Each a split-second decision.
I initiate the checklist. Wallet, check. Umbrella, check. Glasses, check. Lunch box, check. Mask, check. Car keys; the hook is empty. Fade to the bedroom. Long-peer into the bedroom doorway, eyes fixed on the glimmer atop the bedside table. Distance to SO’s ears…
