"i think he's god"
He pounded his fist on the wall while she flinched in the corner. The elevator stopped and she moved briskly into the rain and he stood on the carpet in his bare feet not looking at her. In the car, head on the steering wheel, tap tap tap, fogged windows. The phone rings and she says "what?" with her eyes closed. Anger, seething anger, like hot pin-pricks and live wires in her blood. She snaps through her teeth and he hangs up. She calls back. "I'm going to drive my car into traffic." Click. Dull eyes.Ring. Press ignore. Back out. Voicemail, "please don't," and she almost feels sorry. Feels mean. Shakes her head and drives slowly through the horizontal rain. In the driveway, the metallic jellyfish windchimes moan and rain spatters and smells like digging your fingers in beautiful dirt. No more phone calls, just sinking into covers. Tossing and turning and killing the alarm, but headaches and hot showers erase midnight.
Favorite red shirt. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Warmth and control.
Outside, on the windshield, she finds a yellow napkin with sharpy writing: "I'm glad you're safe," and almost cries.
