I’m wiped.

Like the white fog on the glass of my front door, smeared into a smudgy transparency by one mittened fist as I shove my key into the lock and stumble into the absolute darkness of my dirty apartment - I feel like a trudgy, smudgy, nasty mess, of sweat and stress, and feelings that are best left unsaid.

The world is a black and gray shroud of snowflakes and clouds blocking out the last of the after-light, and the streetlights are on early. The egg and bird-seed-shaped Christmas lights strung around Mrs. Maywinn’s house shine a thousand artificial shades, like LED candy - a string of red and gold glowing beads. Inflatable Santa waves at me through the window.

I close the blinds.

I can barely even explain to myself how I managed to get home - I know Mrs. Moon wished I would let her drive me - but she kept her lips sealed - didn’t try to force it, as I donned my coat and headed out into the frozen night, at a quarter to seven, with the snow still falling steadily.

Kattar just sat dully, staring into the nothingness from his chair - barely even said goodbye, forced a fake smile - but Mrs. Moon just excused him as being tired.

I guess we all are. I feel like I’ve been on my feet for two days rather than a few hours. My fingers and toes - stiff with cold, begin to thaw in the warmth of my kitchen, but my face and head still feel hotter than they should be.

What’s the matter with me?

I shake my head, finger-combing the clumpy strands of my hair, as if that could help me strain out the thoughts running rampant.

Just focus on right now.

April is too long ago to think about, or try to fix…

3 - 15 years ago is more impossible still…

I should eat something.

In a minute. 

Right now I just need a moment to regain my bearings - ask the world to stop spinning.

I should text Kattar, or call…

We need to talk.

Let’s not…

And say we didn’t.

I should apologize. I’ve made such a mess of everything lately - and it isn’t his fault, but it is.

We’re both worn out and worn thin, with holes in odd places where we haven’t held up too well to the way Life’s been tearing us to shreds. The last month and a half have been a lot, and that’s the understatement of the last 28 years of my life. That’s been a lot. It’s all been a lot. Almost too much.

I pull my phone out of my pocket - I think - I’ll just ask if he’s available. We need to talk. And those words are terrifying, even for me.

There’s a notification the second I turn the house wifi on.

Oh, fine, what the heck.

I open the email and almost fall out of my chair.

“Congratulations, Ms. Alicia Palmero, The Precioso Veggera Foundation has accepted your application! You’re sample pieces have been reviewed, and a number of our affiliated agents have expressed their eagerness to reach out and work with you in this “blossoming stage” of your artistic journey, (as our head of communications Melissa Xochitl says, it’s “time to pick a munchkin.”) If you’re willing we will facilitate communication, so you can find an agent who suits your vision. Please reply directly to this message to let me know what steps you’d like to take next,

All the best,

               Juana King on behalf of The Precioso Veggera Foundation.”

I reread the email twice before I’m certain that I’m really awake - I’ve been told you can’t read in dreams - but that doesn’t make much of a difference if you think you can read in your dreams.

This message at least, is really real, the cold glass trembling in my hands, under my fingertips, assures me of that as I reply hurriedly, and then erase, too many typos, in a state of borderline frenzy-

-Like if I breathe, it will be a dream. I’ll wake up.

We’re this close to what we’ve dreamed of - and that’s what makes it all the more suspicious.

Like the last time…

I wouldn’t doubt it if there was a catch - a joker in the pack, as Mrs. Moon would say.

“Yes, thank you. If you could help me get in contact with the agents I’d be extremely grateful.”

I feel like I should say more, but I’m not sure what - better to leave it as it is. I hit send before I make anything flowery or weird. My nerves are jumping like neon electrons switching orbital shells and I’m almost certain I’m glowing. 

I should tell Kattar.

0.00002 seconds from hitting send - saying anything - the wariness washes over me like a wave of mute fire- seasickness and dizzy - anxiety.

I sit paralyzed watching the unending ocean of white blur before my eyes, afloat with letters - I’ll regret - hit send.

Another ocean crashes inside my head - splashes words into cognition that I’d rather forget - and the ones I relive to keep living.

Before I can make up my mind the phone screen turns black and an unfamiliar caller I.D. appears.

My first instinct is always to dismiss calls - all calls - but I realize there’s a good chance it’s someone from The Foundation. I swipe twice before I’m able to accept the call, and that’s probably better because I’m breathing again, by then.

“Hello?” I say softly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I think I manage to come across as ‘normal,’ but you can never tell from the inside, where the storm is taking place in all its glaring, gruesome glory.

“Alicia Palmero speaking, and this is?”

“Hello, or more correctly, good evening,” the low, feminine voice is almost laughing in tone, and deliciously warm, like a black and white movie star. “This is Juana King from The Veggera Foundation. My apologies for calling so late in the day, but we’re trying to work out all our details before the Christmas holidays, you know…”

“Oh, it’s no problem…” 

It really isn’t. Not like I had anything better to be doing with my time.

“Concerning the agents, we have three who were looking at your application, Emelia Howard, Ginger Adams, and Shannon Carmichael, but the first two won’t be free until after the Holidays.”

“Oh…” I say again.

I don’t know why I feel a little bit let down. Eager to work with me - but not too eager - I guess…

Mrs. King continues, oblivious to my internal monolog. Blah blah blah, sometime in January, the week after New Year’s…the words spill together like water, a few catching in the crevices of my cognition, but my mind refuses to let life come into focus tonight.

“-However, Shannon Carmichael requested that I schedule a meeting sometime between this week and the next if that works for you. Is Friday, the 11th too soon?”

I say ‘no’ without thinking.

It really isn’t. 

But as the voice on the other line continues going on about arrangements and promises, without addendums, to send me the address by tomorrow night at the latest, I find myself fretting the obvious -

Ridiculous. 

How am I supposed to get anywhere?

I’m not driving.

When Mrs. King hangs up, I turn out the kitchen light and drag my sore feet across the slick kitchen tile - across the living room carpet - up the stairs and to my room.

I don’t have the energy to try to make dinner. To eat dinner. To shower. To sleep.

I force the bedroom door open and listen to the low, whining whimper of the hinges as I throw my body on the bed, and lay simmering in the sheets.

I leave the light off and stare up at the dark void where the painted ceiling hangs, indefinitely close and far. The thick blackness collapses down on my head - an uncomfortable weight - but bearable, since bearing is easier than fighting. 

I can’t see the red sunset - all splotches and spinning, irreversible circles turning my nights into permanent endings - but I imagine it in my mind's eye as clearly as if I can. Reach one hand toward the off-color dots giving the picture that merry-go-round-ish, spinning life to it, then I cover my eyes, blinded by the idea of light. And the memory.

I’ll take the train.

Even the idea of that is a little nervewracking, but as I lay, with my head spinning - swimming in the infinite circle of life, I splotched onto the walls - for whatever reason - I tell myself “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” 

It’ll have to be. 

I whisper the promise under my breath, without addendums, like a threadbare encantation-

It’s a very different spell from the one I’ve been saying into the ether for so long.

The darkness starts to lighten and glisten with intimations of beauty.

Ten or so crocus lining the grass in the front yard - raising their purple faces to drink the rain as soggy bodies zig-zag past, dodging raindrops, and two, walk together, huddled close beneath a lilac umbrella. 

A sunset and a sunrise stitched together, split through the middle by a cool blue pool of an ocean. The end reflects the beginning and the tail ends of the dying light - an endless ending bleeds into a beginning and ends again.

My angel's eyes.