There are three doors. One door creaks open and a man emerges wearing fuzzy pink slippers, a bathrobe that looks like it’s survived at least two divorces, and a single Bluetooth headset blinking blue against his temple like he’s in a one-man CIA simulation. His eyes are glassy. His hair is doing interpretive dance. He looks like regret got drunk, put on a robe, and started freelancing as a ghost.
He stops. Blinks at me. Slow. Suspicious. Like he thinks I might be selling religion or ketamine. Maybe both.
“I’m looking for Kira,” I say, like that’s going to make this situation any more normal.
He inhales sharply through his nose and stares at me like I just declared myself queen of Neptune.
I clarify. “Tall. Too thin. Looks like weaponized fragility in the sheets?”
He nods. Wipes his nose on his sleeve. And, dead serious, he starts flapping his arms like a chicken and lets out a full-bodied cock-a-doodle-doo like he’s the ghost of Farmer Fuckboy Past, followed by a whispered “They always come for the birds,” and points one trembling finger to the last door at the end of the hall.
Then he turns around, bows to an invisible god, and goes back inside without closing the door all the way.
And I’m the one in therapy?
I tiptoe past his door and pull the letter out of my purse.
Gotta proofread. Can’t send threats with typos. I have standards.
Hey there, gorgeous
Just a gentle suggestion: maybe sit this Friday out before the universe makes that decision for you. I know it’s hard to give up the spotlight, but this one wasn’t meant for you.
Sometimes the muse picks her subject. And sometimes? The subject gets pink eye and nobody wants to draw a crusty-eyed tragic swan.
I’d hate for something unfortunate to happen. Like your bleach getting replaced with Nair. Or your tires going full lemming off a curb. Whoopsies!
You don’t even like art, do you?
Be well. Stay home.
Love,
A Concerned Admirer
P.S. You’d look stunning in a mask. The kind that’s sutured on for safety.
I sprinkle the envelope with glitter. Just enough to get into her pores and haunt her next three exfoliations, not enough to be fabulous, and seal it with a smiley face sticker from my “Emotional Regulation!” planner set. Then I slip it into a pastel gift bag, with a small sachet of glitter, rice, and one rogue Barbie shoe, just to rattle her, and tie it off with a pink ribbon that whispers, “I could burn your whole life down and still get brunch reservations.”
To drive the message home, I tape a single googly eye to the tag that says: Even when you sleep.
I knock politely. No answer. Probably out starving herself and auditioning to be the human personification of oat milk. So I hang the bag on her doorknob, blow a kiss, and head back to the car with the smug glow of a woman who just sent a polite threat with legally ambiguous intent and impeccable stationery.
Sticker Heart.
Check that off the list.
I am productive.
I am terrifying.
I am the moment.
And I smell like Bath & Body Works villainy.
Now. On to Rhys.
Susan, or whatever the fuck her real name is, doesn’t say a goddamn word about the sixteen voicemails I left. No “Sorry for the psychiatric emergency.” Not even a “He’s very busy not caring.”
