They didn’t speak that night, or rather she didn’t. At one point he left and she was able to relax, but that didn’t last long. Maybe an hour later, he returned. Two plates in hand, wrapped in tin foil. He sat one down and then settled one on the table in front of her.
“If you want it.”
That was all he said before setting a Carona beside it. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of pity for the poor homeless girl? Did he even know she was homeless?
The strong smell of fried seafood filled the night air, even before he set about eating his own portion. She watched him. Battered shrimp. A hint of lemon. A swig of beer.
Ten minutes later, he stood and discarded the plate along with the empty bottle. Without another word, he was gone.
Warm food shouldn’t be eaten cold, was her only thought as she tore at the foil. Had he cooked this himself? For her? Did he realize she was out of place there?
Bitter insecurities melted away as she devoured the offering. These weren’t the midget shrimp you found in the frozen food section. These were real to the T battered shrimp, deep fried and drizzled with lemon juice. Midway through she, eyed the beer. She didn’t trust it. Wouldn’t trust it, no matter how good everything else tasted.
She left the empty plate and untouched beer there in case he returned, and slipped into the bushes. How much time passed, she wasn’t sure. No more than thirty minutes, probably.
Sure enough—just as her knees began to scream from her squatted position—she heard the shunk of a beer bottle as its cap twisted off. Why didn’t she think of that? Sure she was underage, but she was eighteen. She could drink if she wanted to.
Ehma waited until his steps padded away and then ejected herself from the bushes. The immediate guilt of not saying thank you edged into her mind. Days passed. She continued to watch, waiting for another opportunity to thank him. It never came.
Once—on a bad day—she saw him while she sat outside of the grocery store. She was so embarrassed. If only she could crawl into herself and die. His gaze teased over her for the briefest of moments, but it was like he sensed her aversion. Once he entered the building, she ran.
And then that became part of her routine as well. Now when she lifted discarded food from the convenience store, part of her went to see him. Now when she dozed in the vacant pool area at night, part of her hoped for a similar interaction. One where maybe she would actually open her stupid mouth this time.
They would talk. He would tell her about his studies. His hopes. His dreams. He would ask her about her worthless parents. About why she decided to leave them behind, even if it meant being in such a difficult position. He’d be kind. Considerate. Gentle with her. They’d laugh. They’d tease each other.
A blaze of heat pranced into her cheeks when she thought about else he might want to do. He was a guy after all. That meant he would want things. To do things to her. Things she hadn’t thought about in a long time. But if it was him…
These were the sort of thoughts that swirled within her head as her course angled off the main road of the gated community. Down the sloping asphalt and into the parking lot, edged by upscale apartments on one side and hidden by a row of bushes on the other. It hadn’t taken long to learn where he parked within the gated community. Not for someone clever like her. Not for someone who was actually interested.
It was then—right at that moment—that something snapped within her. Ehma blinked at the sight. Held her eyes closed with so much force that her entire face puckered. When she opened them, the two of them were still walking towards his apartment. Not hand in hand. Not arm in arm. But together all the same.
The thoughts and feelings that echoed through her weren’t healthy. She knew that. But she didn’t feel healthy either. She didn’t even feel sane. Had she really been following this guy around for the last month? And for what? For what reason?
Are you really going to let this happen?
It was like a normal thought magnified hundreds and hundreds of times over. So loud it drowned out everything. So clear it was like she was listening to it through headphones. If she turned, she was so sure someone would be standing there behind her. She just couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Don’t be scared to take what belongs to you.
Her feet had been glued in place before, but no more. One step followed the next. All around her, nature’s morning buzz was suddenly quiet. And cold. So cold. It had been warm before, right? Humid. Dark clouds eclipsed the Florida sun with such certainty, she couldn’t be sure.
There was a blankness to her thoughts. An emptiness. As she walked she passed the man that was hers and the woman who was trying to take him, she noted how their bodies stood frozen. Like wax mannequins etched into the fabric of time.
Even her reaction to something like this felt sapped. She didn’t linger on it though. Instead, she touched the doorknob to his apartment. An audible click came next.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she asked herself how she had done that. Why she wasn’t surprised when the knob turned in her hand. Why he and the woman who looked like a beat-up hooker were still stuck in place, even as she squeezed passed them and into the dark apartment.
As the door slithered shut, her hoodie found a new home on the vinyl entrance. She cast her shirt onto the carpeted floor of the living room and her pants were left behind in the hallway. The yellow light of the bathroom danced across her skin as her pants came next. Each a breadcrumb that would lead him to her. She knew it.
She noted the sparse decorum as she moved through the apartment. A hardwood table next to the kitchen. A couch in the living room. No tv. No trappings of a womanly touch. So why was there a corner of the bathtub lined with femine shampoo and conditioner?
The wife will never step foot in this apartment again. Too many boys. Too many parties.
The thought comforted her and soon a haze of steam filled the bathroom. True, there were no other feminine items to speak of—an inspection she conducted while flossing. True, there was only one toothbrush—which she used. Soon water scorched her skin. It definitely wasn’t unpleasant. How long had it been since she truly felt clean?
With her hair sudded, she began the task of scouring over her skin with a soapy washcloth. Every inch. Every crack and crevice. Shampooed and conditioned, she strained water through her curls and waited.
How would he react to this? Seeing her bare and unfiltered. Would he be able to control himself? Did she want him to?
Questions sprung into her head as she stared at the abandoned bottles in the corner of the shower. Did he know that the woman who left them would never return? Did he want her to?
Ehma’s lip curled into a snarl, her muscles contorting in a way she didn’t think possible. That was her loss, whoever she was. One dipped in regret. Sooner or later she would have to come to terms with it, but by then it would already be too late.