Kaitlyn and I have been working on creating compelling conflict this year and finding ways to have our female protagonists deviate from stereotypical or expected narratives. In one of our free-writes, I was thinking of ways a main character could be thrown off by another character and then regain her stride. Its essence felt right in line with Ctrl + B.
If there was one thing that kept Mary from true happiness, it was her next-door neighbor, Mr. J. Every day, he made a point to pop into the hallway just as she was walking out of the brownstone apartment where they both lived. Every day at six fifteen in the morning. “Hello Mary, going for a run?” he’d casually toss out, like clockwork.
She tried everything to avoid him. She’d slowly, carefully, uncleat the top chain on her door so he wouldn’t hear. She’d tiptoe through her tiny studio so her creaky old floorboards wouldn’t call any extra attention to her movements. She even gave a passing thought to losing five pounds so she could glide like a ghost to the front door.
But no amount of work seemed to prevent the inevitable. As soon as she’d slip out, she’d hear his lock, then the scratches from his Havanese, Mitzie, and then the familiar greeting. She’d feel them both on her heels as she opened the inside and then the outside door to walk out, forcing her off her own stride in the most stress-inducing way.
After that, that was it. She’d start her run to the park. He’d go in the opposite direction with Mitzie. But why? Why did they have to appear in her wake every single day? It was as if they’d set up a meeting invite she’d never consented to. She resented having to be “on” in the ways all women are conditioned to. She resented having to smile, nod, be gracious, receptive so early in the morning. Couldn’t her shift start a little later? Like at eight in the morning? She just wanted to run.
So one day, a beautiful day in May when the sun was already filtering light into her window at six in the morning, she got up, pulled on her running clothes, and then set a new plan in motion.
She ran the blender extra-long—with ice. She blasted the weather report on the radio. Then, she threw off the chain with abandon and fired up her favorite playlist and began singing at the top of her lungs. She didn’t wait. She didn’t wonder.
Mr. J’s chain started to jangle. She sang louder. Mitzie was scratching. She kept singing. And then, just as she reached the door, she heard it. The chain went back into its lock. No Mr. J. No Mitzie. Six-seventeen a.m. She was free.