SYMPHOBIA - Chapter Four

Colder than I Expect

I hear you open the door before I see the light. Not much of it spills through the space between the closet door and its frame. Through the narrow opening, I can see you place your purse on the dresser by the door. A creature of habit is the saying. You drop your keys in the glass dish less than a half an inch from where you dropped them last night, an inch from the night before that, and exactly where you dropped them the night before that. Your purse – the tan, canvas one with the short straps and no pockets inside so you take at least three minutes to find any one thing – lands four inches from the dish.

The view from the closet is more dangerous than under the bed, but not as brave as the bathroom. I can see more from here. I can hear more. I can smell more.

You start looking for the remote – that doesn’t have a place – and I see nothing in your eyes. You have no idea. Every night, you give your body over to the comfort of repetition, the security of habit. You don’t notice the closet door closed a full seven inches more than you left it this morning, and you don’t notice the sound my heart makes as it beats louder and faster, determined to betray me.

You find the remote and Pat Sajak asks for a vowel. “U,” the contestant replies. Pat reminds her that she’ll have ten seconds to work it out and the sound of the bonus round timer starts. It’s nearly seven-thirty.

You take your shoes off – the white Reeboks with the pink trim and the silver stripe – and you slide them under the bed, six and a half inches from where my face was last night, two inches from where it was the night before that, and sixteen inches from where it was the night before that.

My hands are in my pockets and they’re cold. The rest of me is soaked with sweat, but my hands are cold.

You walk to the bathroom. You always close the door, even though the door to the bedroom is already closed, and locked, and despite the fact that you think you are alone in your room. Shy or careful they might call you. Maybe self-conscious.

I leave the closet and push the door back to where it was. You flush the toilet and I pass the bed. You turn on the water and I pass the TV. The contestant didn’t work out jogging, and she lost. You turn off the water and I press my back against the wall beside the hinges of the door, my hands back in my pockets. I fight to keep breathing and my heartbeat tries to warn you. The door opens, hiding me again, and I see your back as you walk past me. Your hair is up. It’s the same band you used three nights ago.

You stop in front of the TV and Alex Trebek announces the categories for the first round.

I pull my hand from my pocket and raise it to your smooth neck. My fingers touch your skin and it’s colder than I expect.