3. Minimalist Sanctuaries #2
I make a beeline for the dresser and pull open the top drawer, determined not to get sentimental about any of this.
The t-shirt s are stacked in military precision.
I grab the one on top, a heather gray number that says “Hayes” on the inner collar in black laundry marker.
It’s soft, worn, and smells faintly like the shampoo from the bathroom and a little like him, which is a combination I find both comforting and vaguely forbidden.
The next drawer yields boxers, most of them black or dark blue. I select a pair at random, reasoning that the universe already owes me a dozen indignities and what’s one more.
I dry off, dress quickly, and catch myself in the mirror on the back of his door.
The shirt reaches mid-thigh. The boxers only fit because I fold them down again and again and again.
For a split second, I look like a normal, functioning human.
Then I look at my face, and the normalcy vanishes.
I look like someone wearing a disguise, someone who could be erased by the wrong word or the wrong glance.
I turn away from the mirror.
Bowie is waiting in the hall, tail twitching. He eyes my ensemble, clearly unimpressed, and then meows with a tone that could only be described as accusatory.
“Yes, I know,” I say, stepping past him toward the kitchen. “It’s not my best look, but it beats public nudity. For both of us.”
The kitchen is large, clean, and dominated by a blender so fancy I do not trust myself to operate.
I opt for the electric kettle, which is idiot proof and already filled.
I set it to boil, rummage the cabinets until I find a single bag of green tea (Sterling drinks the kind with ginseng and weird motivational quotes on the tags), and plop a teabag in a mug.
Bowie leaps onto the counter, making himself exactly as much at home as I wish I could.
I look at him. “Are you proud of yourself? First you abandon me to a burning building, now you’re acting like we live here. Where’s your sense of solidarity?”
He blinks, then begins a slow, methodical face washing, as if to remind me he’s always two steps ahead in the self-care department.
“Okay, fair,” I concede. “You’re the emotionally stable one. Noted.”
I pour the boiling water over the tea, watch the swirl of green bloom in the mug. For a moment, the scent is enough to ground me. I curl one hand around the ceramic, anchor myself to the heat.
I turn to the window and lean back against the counter, watching the city outside continue in its oblivious, unstoppable rhythm. The sky has brightened, the street is full of people who do not know, and will never know, that today is the first day of my new, accidental life.
This is normal. I am handling this. These are the things I repeat, mantra, like, as I sip the tea and allow Bowie to take up residence next to the sugar bowl.
“See?” I say, raising the mug to the cat. “Totally normal. Completely in control.”
Bowie pauses, mid-paw-lick, and gives me a look that is pure skepticism.
“Fine,” I say. “But we’re trying, okay?”
He finishes his face, wash, hops down, and vanishes into the living room, probably to find the one patch of sunlight I haven’t claimed yet.
I sip the tea, and for a moment, the warmth outpaces the anxiety.
In this moment, in this kitchen, wearing clothes that aren’t mine and standing on a floor that will never be mine, I am nobody’s responsibility except my own.
I can work with that.
I last about eight minutes before I ruin my own resolve.
It starts with the sketchpad, which I fish out of my bag and prop on my knees like a shield.
I flip to a blank page and let my hand go through the motions, lines, curves, a loose geometric study of the window’s ironwork, but none of it is intentional.
I’m watching myself from a safe distance, seeing how long I can pretend to be the version of me that has artistic discipline, when really all I want to do is scream.
Or sleep for twenty-four hours. Or get in a car and drive until I hit saltwater.
I am mid-doodle, mug of green tea clutched in my off-hand, when the lock on the apartment door clicks and my panic returns, sharp and instinctive.
I look down at myself, Sterling’s t-shirt , Sterling’s boxers, bare legs tucked underneath me like I live here, like this is a thing I do every day.
I should move. I should hide. I should, at the very least, untangle my legs and pretend to be a person with dignity.
Instead, I freeze.
Sterling comes in loaded like a pack mule.
There’s a small coffee carrier in one hand (four cups, because he is a man who believes in overkill), a brown paper bag from the bakery that I love, and a giant, luridly turquoise plastic bag from the pet store, the logo bright enough to sear the retinas.
He balances it all with the steady hands of a bomb technician and walks right past me without comment, which means he definitely noticed and is being polite.
He puts everything on the kitchen counter, glances in my direction, and does a quick up, down.
His mouth tugs sideways, but he says nothing about the outfit.
Instead, he goes straight to work. opening cabinets, unpacking the pet store loot, reading labels, throwing away the extra packaging.
He moves with purpose, like a guy who has learned the hard way that stopping to think is the enemy of efficiency.