She sips her tea, pinkie out, delicate fingers wrapping the thin handle. Always so prim and proper, my mother. Her hair is pulled back into a French twist, snugly pressed against her scalp. She's wearing a baby blue woman's suit, with her collar ironed flat, her pants pleated perfectly, and crisp white heels.
Scraping my plate clean into the trash, I put it in the dishwasher. She's still facing the window, sipping her Earl Gray tea, with a spoonful of honey and a dash of cream. I don't think I've ever seen her have it any other way.
Moving toward the door, she calls out, “And Siobhan. . .” I stop, looking back at her over my shoulder. Her eyes stay fixed on the Hudson as she speaks. “You'll wear your yellow Carolina Herrera dress tomorrow, too.”
I'm not a god damn doll! I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I do what I always do and hold it in. Maybe it's my fault she treats me this way. Maybe I should have stood up to her more as a child. Told her no more. Expressed myself louder and more fiercely.
It's too late now for anything to change. All I'll ever be to her is a porcelain doll she gets to dress and manipulate however she wants. Who cares what I want? Right?
Without a word to her, I walk down the hall, through our living room and down another long hallway to my bedroom. Most people might think of the city as knit up tight like a sweater. Layer on top of layer, all squished together like a colony of ants. But not us, not our family with our four thousand square foot penthouse on the upper West Side. One whole side of our home is a wall of windows, and everything is so damn white. My mother loves sleek and clean.
White furniture, white rugs, white cabinets and counters, it's too much. She adds her pops of color with flowers and huge abstract statues she picks up at expensive auctions for the elite. Most come from someone's personal collection, and probably belong in a museum.
The sad part is she doesn't even know who any of the artists are. Her purchases are for status, and the higher the cost, the better it must be.
Closing the door behind me as I enter my room, I exhale a heavy breath and fall on my bed. Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I check it to see if Mark tried to call or text me.
He hasn't, and it saddens me. I haven't heard from him at all today, and after how long we talked last night, I kind of thought I would have by now. When I woke up with a dead phone on my bed, I kept thinking he would call me the second he got up.
It's already eleven in the morning, and nothing. Setting the phone back down, I lay my hands over my face and close my eyes. Mark's face emerges easily with that sweet little smile of his, and his bold brown eyes. So dark, so dirty, so easy to get lost in.
My hands flutter down my throat, softly touching, caressing, reminding me of how much I enjoyed when he touched me with his rough farm hands. Calloused and stained, with cracks in his skin and sandpaper texture, his tenderness was surprising.
The intercom from front lobby buzzes, causing me to jump out of bed and sprint down the hall. Calling out into the empty house, I yell, “I'll get it!” I press the button and speak. “Yes?”
“Ms. Andrews, there's someone here to see you.”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes, Ms. Andrews. He says his name is Mark. I've never seen him before, but he claims he knows you. I tried to send him away, but he's pretty adamant you two know each other.”
Mark? Is he really here?
“Ms. Andrews?”
I'm in shock, excited, over the moon, type of shock. Smiling to myself, I feel giddy all over that he's here.
“Hello? Ms. Andrews? Do you want me to send him away?”
“No, no, send him up,” I answer quickly before the doorman gives him the boot. He will, too. He doesn't take shit from anyone. Cross him and you'll be speaking through a wired jaw, drinking liquid dinners.
“All right, he's on his way.”
My palms are sweaty, and my heart is ready to jump out of my chest. Pacing in a small circle, I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. Shaking my hands at my sides, I swallow hard.
There's a knock on the door, and I don't even wait until the last tap before I'm tearing it open. A big smile spreads across my face as I see him standing there. In a button-up shirt and dark jeans, his hair is loose, covering his eyes as it falls into his face.