The Door to Dawn

The cup of coffee in front of me now will never be as black as that well. But stirring in cream won’t wash away the past. Somewhere dishes shatter on the diner’s kitchen floor. A dishwasher has accidently tripped over her body. Among the scattered tables and chairs she is a duffle bag to be stepped over or tossed over a shoulder. Continuing their normal lives, patrons and waitresses walk over her, unaware. One nearly steps on her head. They have no idea how completely she owns me. How completely she owns us all. The man, however, became nothing more than a footnote to my life—a reference called upon only when needed.

The day after the incident the police discovered a word carved in the plaster wall of the bedroom. A word that said I was there—a word that was at the end of questions they kept asking. I had all the right answers.

I want to say the house still stands, empty and alone. An interstate cuts through the patch of woods where it once stood. The woods—home to a strip mall and suburban sprawl. David’s gone, replaced by a telephone pole.

What happens when the branches are no longer inside me, but outside? When they want to spread out and grow from the tips of my fingers and toes? When the truth is not enough? I shed my skin.

For now, I fold up the clipping and hide its memories away in my wallet. There it will stay dormant until needed again.

“You ready for your check?”

“Yep.”

“Have I seen you in here before? You look like I’ve seen you in here before.”

“Nope, first time. What’s your name?”

“Debbie.”

“Debbie. Hey, Debbie. I’m Eric. Say, that sure is a pretty dress you’re wearing. So colorful.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet.”

“I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, Debbie.”