won’t do much against the hypothermia and numbing freezing death that awaits the survivors. But it’s comforting to know they’re there, just in case. It’s just like how, if Katie pictures the button being Connor’s chest, she knows jabbing it won’t change anything, but each word punctuated by a poke brings an elevated level of calm with it.
“You’ve”—jab—“neglected”—jab—“my”—jab—“feelings”—jab—“for”—jab—“too”—jab—“long.” Sob. “I need to know you love me back.” Jab.
Katie imagines Connor’s smooth, deep voice stuttering out an answer. She pictures the stupid look on his handsome face, a look of surprise. It’s the look of a trapped animal. His square jaw slack, the bow of his perfectly kissable lips hangs open. His voice, halting and hesitant, says, “Baby, uh, you know I do, uh, you’re the greatest.” Pause. “I think you’re really great, uh.”
She needs to hear him say the actual words, and she will tell him so.
“I love you. There are two things you can say right now.” Jab. “Pick one and say it. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Katie doesn’t know what he’ll say, but she’ll watch for that quick twitch or that momentary aversion of gaze signifying lying or avoidance. If he says the words back to her and if he really means them, she will make love to him right then. If he hesitates at the wrong spot, she will know. If he lies or can’t say it back, she will take her toothbrush, her favorite coffee mug, and her pink nightshirt and go. She’ll slam his apartment door as hard as she can on her way out. Damn the neighbors too.
The elevator chimes Katie’s thoughts back to the lobby. The doors slowly part, revealing Jimenez standing there like the world’s least appealing peep show dancer. He holds a screwdriver in one meaty fist and has a tiny golden screw cupped in the other. His tool belt has slipped off his hips and taken his pants down slightly as well. The smallest glimpse of his belly can be had, exposed from under his bowling shirt. Katie tries not to let her eye be drawn to the lobe of flesh, but she finds it hard to resist the spectacle.
Katie isn’t sure what Jimenez’s first name is. She’s seen him around the building on occasion and knows his surname from his seemingly unending wardrobe of bowling shirts with the name “Jimenez” embroidered on an oval patch and sewn on the breast pocket. They’ve said a few words in passing and always share a smile or a nod when they see each other. He seems like a nice man.
Jimenez and Katie stare at each other for a moment, Jimenez with his eyebrows lifted and his forehead wrinkled, Katie with her finger still extended like a gunslinger’s hip shot aimed at the elevator button. Each is seemingly surprised by the other’s presence.
“Elevators are broke, lady,” Jimenez says. “They ain’t going up or down. You gotta use the stairs.”
The stairs, Katie thinks. I have to hike up hundreds of stairs to the twenty-seventh floor. Then, most likely, have my heart broken, and then have to hike back down hundreds of stairs again, listening to the sounds of my own crying echoing back at me from the heights of the stairwell. Katie’s emotions oscillate between self-pity and rage at Connor, a heady and unstable mix that leaves her uncertain of how much control she will be able to exert over herself.
Katie’s stomach clenches when she thinks, Twenty-seven floors of hearing myself cry.
She feels like bawling right there, just to get it over with. The sooner she starts, the sooner she’ll find catharsis, and then, done with it, her emotions will be free to heal as much as they can and move on. Instead, she stands with dry eyes, embarrassed and exposed in front of the building superintendent. Her upper lip wobbles into an unsteady smile, and she sighs. Her chin puckers once before she pulls herself together.
She will be strong.
She is prepared.
“Sorry,” Jimenez
“You’ve”—jab—“neglected”—jab—“my”—jab—“feelings”—jab—“for”—jab—“too”—jab—“long.” Sob. “I need to know you love me back.” Jab.
Katie imagines Connor’s smooth, deep voice stuttering out an answer. She pictures the stupid look on his handsome face, a look of surprise. It’s the look of a trapped animal. His square jaw slack, the bow of his perfectly kissable lips hangs open. His voice, halting and hesitant, says, “Baby, uh, you know I do, uh, you’re the greatest.” Pause. “I think you’re really great, uh.”
She needs to hear him say the actual words, and she will tell him so.
“I love you. There are two things you can say right now.” Jab. “Pick one and say it. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Katie doesn’t know what he’ll say, but she’ll watch for that quick twitch or that momentary aversion of gaze signifying lying or avoidance. If he says the words back to her and if he really means them, she will make love to him right then. If he hesitates at the wrong spot, she will know. If he lies or can’t say it back, she will take her toothbrush, her favorite coffee mug, and her pink nightshirt and go. She’ll slam his apartment door as hard as she can on her way out. Damn the neighbors too.
The elevator chimes Katie’s thoughts back to the lobby. The doors slowly part, revealing Jimenez standing there like the world’s least appealing peep show dancer. He holds a screwdriver in one meaty fist and has a tiny golden screw cupped in the other. His tool belt has slipped off his hips and taken his pants down slightly as well. The smallest glimpse of his belly can be had, exposed from under his bowling shirt. Katie tries not to let her eye be drawn to the lobe of flesh, but she finds it hard to resist the spectacle.
Katie isn’t sure what Jimenez’s first name is. She’s seen him around the building on occasion and knows his surname from his seemingly unending wardrobe of bowling shirts with the name “Jimenez” embroidered on an oval patch and sewn on the breast pocket. They’ve said a few words in passing and always share a smile or a nod when they see each other. He seems like a nice man.
Jimenez and Katie stare at each other for a moment, Jimenez with his eyebrows lifted and his forehead wrinkled, Katie with her finger still extended like a gunslinger’s hip shot aimed at the elevator button. Each is seemingly surprised by the other’s presence.
“Elevators are broke, lady,” Jimenez says. “They ain’t going up or down. You gotta use the stairs.”
The stairs, Katie thinks. I have to hike up hundreds of stairs to the twenty-seventh floor. Then, most likely, have my heart broken, and then have to hike back down hundreds of stairs again, listening to the sounds of my own crying echoing back at me from the heights of the stairwell. Katie’s emotions oscillate between self-pity and rage at Connor, a heady and unstable mix that leaves her uncertain of how much control she will be able to exert over herself.
Katie’s stomach clenches when she thinks, Twenty-seven floors of hearing myself cry.
She feels like bawling right there, just to get it over with. The sooner she starts, the sooner she’ll find catharsis, and then, done with it, her emotions will be free to heal as much as they can and move on. Instead, she stands with dry eyes, embarrassed and exposed in front of the building superintendent. Her upper lip wobbles into an unsteady smile, and she sighs. Her chin puckers once before she pulls herself together.
She will be strong.
She is prepared.
“Sorry,” Jimenez
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