I stood on my front porch, shaking. I looked only at my keys as they slid into the lock and only at the knob as I turned it. My gaze zoomed no wider than the door as it opened. I hated acting like a toddler playing peek-a-boo, believing if I couldn’t see Mommy, she couldn’t see me.
The house already smelled musty. I put my head down and walked to my room. I shut out my peripheral vision because I couldn’t be sure there weren’t eyes in the corners. I focused on my feet as they traversed my living room rug. My kitchen floor. The wood floor of the hall.
My room.
I threw the duffel on my bed.
The closet. The dress, still in a dry cleaning bag.
The shoes, clumped on the floor.
The bathroom. My fancy makeup.
The dresser.
The top drawer.
I only had the Bordelle underwear left.
Under a manila envelope.
The bed.
The duffel bag.
The objects pushed inside.
Shoes. Dress. Underwear. Makeup. Envelope.
The zipper.
My feet on the floors. The rug.
The porch.
The door.
The key.
Click.
My breath.
Exhaled.