Her Shadows, His Secrets

Stepping into my small cubicle, I remove my purse, then hang it on the small holder I have Command-stripped to the small box I call a workspace and fix my dress. I wore my Monday dress. I only have seven nice work outfits, so I repeat them frequently—another New York no-no. I live in the capital of fashion, but this black sundress with cap sleeves was eight dollars at my local thrift store and gets the job done. It’s not like I’m working for Vogue.

“Hey, Hanna, it’s good seeing you.”

The pleasantries I share with Chelsea in printing are about it for me. I know I’m a little shy and never the first to initiate a conversation, but this place is stuffy. There is one person who is persistent though—Dax in editorial. He’s a nice guy, clean cut, and seems to be like me, wears the same few outfits and tends to keep to himself.

He asked me out a few weeks ago, and I turned him down. I could tell it hurt, but he didn’t seem too upset. In fact, he stayed pretty normal if you ask me. Still stops by when he’s on my floor, says hello, asks me about my day or the past weekend, and then he smiles and is off. But other than that, my face is in my computer, researching, writing, and editing final articles.

My days pass like this. They come and go, and as a twenty-three-year-old, I realize just how pathetic it is. Do I need to be more social? Probably. Should I consider dating? Maybe. At least I don’t have a bunch of cats—hell, not even one.

Go me!

I have no idea where to start though or even what I would do. This whole harassing thing has definitely made me leery to go outside and trust people. But what could they want? Money? Are they druggies looking for a hit? My apartment complex is that kind of place.

Nothing exciting jumped out at me at work, per usual, and once I head off, I’m only three blocks away from home when my stomach starts to sink. The closer to home I get, the less foot traffic there is, leaving a nagging, spine-tingling sensation that I’m not alone.

I risk looking back yet see no one there but a few locals I’ve seen around. I pick up speed and get inside to the mailboxes. Hurrying, I open my box with my keys in my shaking hands, looking behind me and over my shoulder. Messily, I grab the few envelopes, then rush up the stairs. Once inside, I lock the door and release a deep breath.

“Relax, Hanna. You’re starting to sound insane even to yourself now,” I whisper into the room. I want to rinse off; the muggy summer day and long walk to and from work have me dying to clean myself up, and maybe the brief spray of hot water that will last at most ten minutes before going cold can help settle me down. I complained for over a year now that my water doesn’t stay hot, and they do nothing. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, especially when you live in a place like this.

Putting my purse and keys down along with the mail, I start to undress. I wait until I’m fully naked before starting the water, making sure I save every second of warmth I’ll get. Stepping in, I make work of cleaning myself from head to toe, and closing my eyes, I daydream of a luxurious shower and hours of hot water… or maybe a nice bubble bath. By the time I’m clean, the water goes from lukewarm to bite-you-on-the-ass-with-snow cold. Shivering, I turn off the tap and grab the towel hanging over the shower rod, covering myself up, followed by my robe.

Stepping onto the mat, I tremble a bit while putting on my nightly face moisturizer. The sun is almost about to set, and I plan to eat a microwavable Lean Cuisine and curl up with a book in my bed. Whenever I have extra money to spare, I go to the local used bookstore and purchase whatever novel intrigues me. Usually, the cover is all it takes to get me hooked, but when I can’t find one that catches my eye, I spend over an hour reading blurbs on the back until I find one I like.

The latest one is a romance. Not my usual, go-to genre. Thrillers like Gone Girl or Girl on a Train tend to be my favorite, but with the nightly stalker showing up at my door, I don’t want to add to my building paranoia.

Looking at the clock while my dinner heats up, I pull out my romance novel, and my Diet Pepsi from the fridge, and walk to my nightstand. My studio apartment is small and as cozy as it can be. It’s not much, but I’ve done my best to make it a home.