It’s a small room, maybe ten by ten at most, and the light comes from a floor lamp in the far corner, which creates long shadows from all the towers of clutter inside. This is a closet, I think. It’s a room, but it’s being used as a closet, a dumping ground. Clothes, still on hangers, stacked in piles on boxes. Books in loose arrangements on the floor. I scan a couple of titles, seeing a range from mysteries to academic texts. An area rug, tightly rolled, stands on end and leans against the wall. A lamp on its side, a tear zigzagging along its shade. In one corner, a heap of shoes, like bodies thrown in a mass grave.
Each second in here is a risk. If she’s just Brenda, the girl at work whom I’ve always known, then getting discovered in this room will be awkward at worst. But if she’s someone else entirely, I may have a real problem.
My body heats. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the panic is starting to turn into actual nausea. My mouth is slick with saliva, the precursor to a good bout of puke.
Keep calm. You can do this. It’s okay.
I touch the wine opener through the front pocket of my jeans, suddenly realizing what little use it is. I quickly scan the room, seeing nothing immediately suspicious. There’s just too much stuff in here, and I need time to pick through things.
Thirty more seconds. Then leave.
I suppress my urge to vomit and focus my efforts on one thing that stands out in this claustrophobic space. Near the far wall is a drafting table, its surface positioned at a working angle, with a single, backless stool in front of it. There is nothing stacked on the table or chair, which makes me think both might be used on a regular basis.
A wave of dizziness sweeps over me as I make my way to the table. My left foot hits a tower of precariously stacked books, and they crumble to the floor.
“Damn it.” I don’t have time to put them back.
I reach the table and sit on the stool, and the sudden support beneath me makes me realize how unsteady I actually am. I lay my palms on the smooth, white surface of the table, which is angled up toward me. There are no pens, pencils, or paper in sight, though there are a few stray, colored marks on the table, evidence of its use. I should be searching elsewhere, through the various half-open boxes or piles of books for something that will give me insights. But I’m pulled to this table. There is something here. I can feel it.
I run my hands along the top and the sides of the table as my head feels lighter by the second, as if slowly being filled with helium.
What the hell is happening to me?
I flick my gaze to the open door and confirm Brenda’s not there. Just a few more seconds.
My hands go beneath the table, and at that moment, my fingertips find a drawer handle. I look down, seeing the drawer isn’t necessarily hidden, but it’s tucked flush under the base of the table, and it’s only a couple of inches deep, so not obvious to the eye. The drawer is nearly as wide as the table, and as I slide it open, a clutter of colored markers and pens rolls toward me.
The colored tips begin to blur, and in this moment, I know something is very wrong.
I’m aware of paper: thick, heavy white sheets. Blank. I reach inside the drawer and grab the one on the top.
My stomach roils. A sudden, stabbing pain in my side, like a very large bee stinger. Or a very small knife.
I’m sick, I think. Food poisoning. Bad Chinese. And if I don’t make it back into the bathroom, I’ll be sick in this office. On this table.
Go back, logic insists. Get out of this room.
I pull the sheet out and hold it up. It’s a dull white, the color I imagine my face must be right now.
It’s blank.
Leave this room.
My disappointment is quashed by my sudden, commanding need for a toilet. I’m not even sure I’m going to make it.
My body starts shaking, and the heat that mere moments ago filled my body is replaced by jagged, stabbing ice, which saws at me from the inside out.
This is beyond food poisoning.
This is poisoning.
My legs turn numb, and I have to brace myself on the top of the table to keep from collapsing. As I do, the paper falls from my hand and twists in the air.
When it lands, it’s turned over, and this side isn’t blank. Not at all.
Artwork. Heavy black lines outline a shape I know very well, even though he’s only half drawn, and only partially filled with rich, brilliant, piercing colors. Mister Tender is leaning over the top of his bar and whispering into the ear of someone who looks very much like me.
And suddenly I see the similarity. The bold strokes, the confident outer lines of a first sketch. This artist is undeniably the same as the one who chalked up daily specials and images of coffee cups on the chalkboard at the Rose. The same person I always thought should be in art school, rather than working in a simple coffee shop.
My legs give up entirely, and I fall to the ground, crumpling the page beneath.
I look up.
Brenda stands in the doorway, smiling at me. It’s a genuine smile, top-shelf, and I know beyond question there’s nothing more important in her world right now than me.
She says something, but I don’t understand. My mind tells me I’m reaching for the wine opener in my pocket, but my limbs don’t respond. My only thought is that I’m now the one thing I promised I’d never be again: helpless.
Then, as much as I try to fight it, darkness comes.