steps -- flash fiction
Every picture frame you hang is empty. The obviously handmade, obviously elementary project clay frame you purchased at Goodwill that hangs above your bed has the same purpose as the ornate 24x36 frames hanging evenly on either side of the TV, both of which have the same purpose as the blueberry pie slice shaped picture frame in the kitchen: to wait.
You pass the frames, varying in height to track your way down the steps from the second floor to the first floor, every morning after you brush your teeth clean of sleep. Your steps echo in the empty house, half a horse clopping down your steps and into the kitchen. You start the kettle. It whistles in precisely six minutes. Five more minutes, you’re holding a fresh cup of orange-cinnamon tea. You sit yourself down in front of your half a cinnamon raisin bagel.
There’s a loud rap on the door.
You freeze. Your front teeth haven’t sunk far enough into the bagel to get past the butter. Your eyes dart to the door, to the window, to the front door on the other side of the chrysanthemum wallpaper. You’ve stopped breathing.
You exhale. With the inhale of cinnamon comes the trembling.
Another knock— This one is harder, more urgent.
You stand on seashell legs. Click to the front door. Your breath smells like sweet mint and the door smells like cold wood and metal as you lean forward to look outside through the peephole.
It’s Hannah, your neighbor’s child, frantic. She probably needs another ride to school, like last week, when her mom was too doped up on alcohol to drive her, or the week before when it was meth. You’d done her hair last week, too. You’d also been lectured by the principal last time that if she was late again, she would have to stay after school.
You stand, wrestling with your conscience for the decent part of a minute before another urgent, small fist slams against the door and you open without any further consideration.
Magnified eyes meet yours without hesitation as words about needing a ride to school tumble over each other out of her mouth, then cease just as quickly as they were coming out. She stares at your wide collar bone sticking out over the Peter-Pan collar of your blue dress, the plastic and fraying ginger red (chosen to match your natural color) hair curled down over your shoulders, and the black stilettos strapped around your feet. She doesn’t know they’re squeezing a bit too much for your liking. She doesn’t know your ears were already starting to itch from the fibres of the wig and the wig cap. She doesn’t know this was you laid out bare. She is the first one to witness this.
This tiny little seven year old with uneven braids, bottle cap glasses, and butterfly clips reminiscent of the 90s in her hair is the first one to witness your personal milestone, but she doesn’t know.
“I like your dress, Mr. Adam.” Mister always comes out as mithter without her front teeth. “Can you drive me to school?”
You pause for a second. Can you drive her to school like this?
Well, you have to. She can’t be late.
You nod. “Yes, Hannah. Can you do me a favor first?”
She nods. “Yes, Mr. Adam.”
You hand her the disposable camera you’ve been keeping on the table next to the door for weeks. You pick up the purse you had prepared the night before. “Will you climb up on the stump in the yard and take a picture of me before we leave? I’ll stand here.”
Hannah sheds her gaping maw of a backpack, stumbles over a fallen Junie B. Jones novel as she runs to climb up on the stump, takes a moment to place her feet. She lifts the camera to her eyes. Within seconds she’s down, running back to you. She scoops up the book and her backpack. As she fumbles with them, she hands the camera back.
You drive her to school. At the nearest fotomat, you hand over the disposable to someone you swear should be sitting in a desk picking at his acne at this time of day, sit in your car in the parking lot for an hour while your photos are developed, then leave once you have the envelope in your hands.
Inside your own home again fifteen minutes after, your trembling hands open the package. You take two photos out. One is fuzzy, half a thin flesh-colored finger blocking the view of the lens. Your body is a blue sky blur against the black of your dark front door. The other is clearer. You can see the sharp angle of your jaw despite how far away the photo is. Your hair is perfectly coiled over your shoulders and your dress hides any curves that may or may not be present. The number of your house is on your left in metal numbers, but you swear the three digits may as well be a countdown in minutes to some sort of doomsday.
It’s sure to get around town, if it isn’t already. The principal saw you rushing Hannah up to the front doors of the school. The fotomat teenager saw you as well. Mrs. Lovinsky probably saw you driving around town from her shop window. News travels fast, y’know. It’s bound to get out that Mr. Adam, who drives his neighbor’s daughter to school and works from home, isn’t Mr. Adam. Who are you?
There’s no time for that now, though. You remove the first frame— from Goodwill as well, pink with a white bow— from the wall above the final step onto the first floor. You push the metal pieces holding the back of the frame in place away. You remove the back of the frame, set the first photo inside it and carefully line it up. Replace the back.
Replace the frame on the wall.
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