12. REEMA

It's not a far drive home, but I go slowly. At the first sign of those dots coming back or anything going fuzzy, I'm going to pull over to the side. Getting behind a wheel was a stupid thing to do, but I had to get away from Coleman.

He called me Reema.

Absolutely refusing to dwell on that, I pull up to the apartment building I've been calling home. I don't have a designated parking spot, but luck is on my side today. There is an empty space right out front. Turning the engine off, I find and eat another granola bar, plus a stale croissant I must have left on the back seat last week sometime. My stomach gurgles in satisfaction. Then I check twice to make sure nothing that looks valuable is left around me before I get out and lock the doors. Smashing car windows is common in this area. The first time I moved here, someone broke mine because they thought my charging wire was connected to a phone.

I had sobbed Why me the whole day, back when I was still a crier.

Now I keep my car unwashed and looking dumpy. The mud on it is an eyesore, and kind of matches the eye-soreness of my entire aesthetic if you think about it. We match without trying. Silver linings; dig deep and they exist.

More small blessings. The front door of the building has a new security lock. These days we only get a few strangers wandering the hallways, and our building manager usually threatens them out fairly quickly.

The whole complex is about ten floors high, but each unit is tightly packed against its neighbors because a greedy real-estate developer in the sixties wanted to maximize space, or perhaps laws weren't as strict back then and paper-thin walls pushed up against each other were the norm. It's one of those places you could never renovate properly because the amount of work needed to bring it properly up to code would require the whole place to be demolished first and then built back up. That's probably why the main demographics living here are elderly people whose pensions only cover so much or new immigrants still looking for better jobs. At least the invasive moss climbing up the outside gives the building a whiff of elegance. If you stand back far enough and chug a few drinks, you might mistake the blocky rectangular structure as some fancy Regency estate. The painted on-brick texture certainly helps.

Inside and to my right is an elevator. Getting into one of those will remind me of what just happened, but for once I'm glad ours is permanently under maintenance.

He picked me up like I was important and needed saving.

After climbing seven floors of stairs, my eyes feel heavy on my face. Before I unlock the apartment door, I call out, "It's Reema."

That way, Ms.Beatrice knows it's me coming in and no one else. Like always, I'm greeted with her warm smile and the smell of food.

She is a wonderful and kind eighty-three-year-old woman with brown spots covering the skin of her cheeks, hands, and feet. And no matter how many times she washes her hair, it's so thin it becomes matted, so that's what I'm used to seeing: white, slicked back strands, always pulled into a lovely thin braid. Today she's wearing a fuzzy cardigan, but other days she wears fuzzy shirts, or fuzzy pants, or fuzzy socks, and sometimes, when it's winter, all of them layered together. She says the texture feels the same as her late-husband's hugs after he used to come home from the furniture packing store covered in white fluff.

In her youth, Ms. Beatrice easily dwarfed my five-foot-three height, but age has stooped her shoulders and back, so when we hug, her head rests on my arm.

"Did you want some dinner?" she asks, helping me out of my jacket. "I made soup."

"I already ate," I say, lying like I always do. "They feed us at work, remember?"

Lunch, not dinner. A small detail.

Ms.Beatrice lives on a criminally low pension. I've seen the numbers. With everything added up, she can afford to feed herself, but she can't afford another mouth. Whatever she doesn't eat today is saved for leftovers tomorrow. That's why I don't let myself eat it. Taking what she doesn't have to give would damage the little self-respect I have left inside me.

Already, she's given me so much. Two years ago, I was evicted. If Ms.Beatrice hadn't seen me crying at the grocery store and stopped to listen to my story, I would never have found a kind hand to help me back up. She gave me a bedroom.

Well, bedroom might be a generous word for it. It's a part of her living room sectioned off with a curtain. A den you could say… with a big squint of the eyes.

"Do you want to do the crossword together?" I ask.

"Go to sleep, dear. You look as if you're about to fall down."

I could weep. Right now, all I need is a flat surface. I stumble towards the living room, go behind my little curtain and drop straight onto the quilted comforter. It's cozy… and so is my situation.

The bed is more of a cot that was salvaged from the alleyway behind this building. There's a broken leg that's been taped so many times, it's permanently sticky, which is why I avoid bumping into it. Pillows are cheerily embroidered with images of cats bouncing around. Those were bulk-bought at an estate sale, so cheap they were practically given away. When I rest my head on them and wake up to bristly threads tangled in my hair, I understand why. At least the quilt is great quality. When I spread it out, it covers the multitude of sins.

Two years ago, my bedroom was five times the size. I lived in a luxury penthouse that had sconces for lighting, iron railings flown in from Italy for the staircase, and an entire wall of windows to command a sweeping view of the city. I was still married to Harry.

Everything was different back then, but what I need out of life has changed completely. The poster I've got pinned to the wall proves that. My goals written on there are big, black, and underlined.

The last one is a joke, as if in some alternative universe I have the time, effort, and the care to get laid properly.

One day,a wistful voice sings to me. You will be filled and stretched in all the right ways.

As if summoned from the underworld, Coleman's voice is cocky as it rasps in my ear. There's nothing unfulfilling about me, Patel.

Bad brain! I'm not thinking about Satan right now. Not after I embarrassed myself, collapsing into his arms.

Fuck, did that really happen?

I don't want to think about it. I can't. I need to focus on how I'm so close to crossing the real goals off my poster. It's taken two years, but my credit score is not dead and lifeless in some virtual sewer.

Not only that, but after securing this bonus, I'll have enough money to clear my debt and get a place of my own. The timing is perfect because Ms.Beatrice's kids are back in the picture. They want her to sell this apartment and live with them on the sunny coast of Florida.

She has pushed the move-out date for as long as she can, but it's finally happening. In a few months, I have to find another place to live. There are options out there already, but I'm not moving from one curtained-sectioned den to another. No roommates either.

At thirty-five, I crave independence and freedom again. I need to feel like I'm going forward after being knocked back so far.

Those goals on my poster keep me going. Dressing like this, working like this, living like this—it needs to be worth it. There has to be a light at the end of this tunnel…

Soon my mistakes can be erased as if they never happened. And I'll have done it without anyone finding out about them.

And sure, I know my family would step in if I asked them for help, but I… just… can't. I'm embarrassed. I don't understand the woman whose decisions led to this point, so I don't know how to tell them about her.

I rather it all go away.

My eyes are closed, but I hear Ms.Beatrice flick the light switch off. It's too early to plunge her living room into darkness, but she does it so I can sleep better.

"Thank you," I cry out.

"There are some clothes I left by the door that I was going to donate. Would you mind dropping them off when you can, Reema?"

"Of course. Not a problem."

We don't mention that I'll look through the clothes and pick out anything I can keep. Ms.Beatrice has been supplying a lot of my wardrobe. If I thought for a second she was buying me anything new, I would have put a stop to it, but she insists she's downsizing her closet before the big move.

Even if we're not the same size, I'm thankful. It's one less thing I've got to spend money on. That night I left the penthouse, there wasn't time to grab many things. So much was lost in the chaos of our break-up. And by the time I tried going back, locks had been changed. Furniture had been sold.

So now, I wear Ms.Beatrice's clothes.

Sexy Reema on the loose! Want to watch a full-coverage strip-tease? I got you.

Yawning, I wrap myself in a duvet that smells like incense and mothballs, falling asleep in the corner of a living room, surrounded by a curtain held up by zip-ties.

I think of Coleman.

If he saw me now, what would he think?

How hard would he laugh?