Meredith, Alone

I’ve got six minutes to walk to the train station, plenty of time if I wear my flat boots. My trench coat is hanging on the hook by the front door, my red hat stuffed in its pocket. My bag on the kitchen table contains everything I need for a day at the office. My hair is freshly washed and straightened; my lips are glossed. They match my hat – by chance, but I like it.

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Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door I become aware of a seed of doubt in my throat. I can’t swallow it down or cough it up. My chest is tight, my palms hot. Tingles race up my arms, like tiny electric shocks. I keep my eyes on the floor, watching my feet slide across the wooden boards I’d sanded, so painstakingly, only a month earlier. It’s as if they belong to someone else.

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I slump on to the stairs, sit on the third step from the bottom and try to swallow. I’m still staring at my feet, encased in the thick socks I always wear with my flat boots because I tend to be between sizes and I’d opted to go up a half in them. The boots stand tall and proud beneath my coat at the end of the hall. I know they’re there, but I can’t reach them.

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All I have to do is walk to the door. Slide my feet into my boots and pull the zippers. Put on my coat and my red hat. Hook my bag over my shoulder and lock the door behind me. A simple sequence that takes less than a minute of my day. If I leave now, I can still make my train. I can still get to work on time.

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But the seed in my throat is swelling. I gulp for air. There’s nobody here to help me and I can’t help myself because my arms and legs are on fire.

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When I can finally take my phone out of my bag, three hours have passed, I’ve had twelve missed calls, and I’m still sitting on the third step from the bottom…