Chloe ripped half a dozen thin, tan, serviettes out of the dispenser while she waited for her coffee. Halfway through pulling the seventh, she stopped and looked up. The barista, who had James written on his name tag and to Chloe seemed nothing like a James, was watching the the act with his disapproving, forest green eyes. The thin piece of paper clung on to its companion’s hand with its fingertips, as if holding on to dear life.
“James” for no good reason other than perhaps to mock her, ripped out a deep, tormenting scream, “large, iced caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream for Chloe.”
Chloe pushed up the round clear framed glasses, sliding down her tiny nose, with the back of her hand. “James” handed her the cup and turned away saying, “the salted caramel cookie and blueberry muffin are coming up.” Chloe thought he turned a little too slowly and his sly smile that followed his lingering glance at her waist felt very deliberate.
She held the large, cold cup awkwardly on the inside of her elbow to free her hands and text her friends about James the Jerk. The cup partly rested against her left breast. Cold droplets from the condensation on the plastic, trickled down her shirt, stopping right at her nipple. She felt a tiny sting like someone had gently flicked those perky udders. She shifted the cup so more of it pressed against her chest, then closed her eyes with pleasure.
“Salted caramel cookie and blueberry muffin for Chloe,” “James” screamed. She was right there. He held the cookie and muffin wrapped inside a paper bag in between his index and middle fingers. She noticed the same judgement in his eyes but there was also a tinge of disgust.
Just last week, Chloe celebrated graduating from OU (Go Sooners!) and now here she was in the Big Apple trying hard to fit in, or at least not stand out. Her oversized, white top, which was now soaking on one side, featured a print of a tall, thin model wearing a miniskirt, dark stockings over her long legs, stiletto heels, a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. That shirt made no sense to Chloe, the strange girl printed on it was nothing like her, nor did Chloe aspire to be like her, but then again it wasn’t the only thing in her life that didn’t make sense right now.
Jerk-James had vacated the room in her mind by the time she stepped out of the café, the sweet treats though had found a place in her bag. She found herself compulsively looking up while walking the streets, as if hoping the skyscrapers might lean down and tell her a tale or two about themselves. There were more high-rise buildings in a block than all downtown Oklahoma City. The claustrophobia of the alleys was intensified by the monotony of the structures, as if she was chased by glassy monsters. The oversized churches, crowded outside with tourists snapping photos and admiring the architecture, felt strangely lonely inside. Even the gods must be lonely around here, she thought. But on the bright side, they didn’t seem nearly as busy as they were back where she came from.
“Watch out, they’re coming for you,” a tall, bearded man whispered into Chloe’s ear. His husky voice and tattered clothes made her flinch. The edge of his gray, muddy flat cap brushed her cheek as he leaned in. He tilted his head to the sky, raised both arms, and pointed upward with his index fingers like antennae. Eyes closed, he muttered, “We are all being watched.”
He looked back at Chloe, smiled, revealing his rotten teeth and said, “you’ll be alright, just look ahead,” then walked away. Chloe stood frozen. Sweat leaked from every pore. Her first reaction was to tightly hold her handbag with both hands. The crowd around her seemed to speed up, like the world was in fast forward mode. Her head was spinning or perhaps everything around her was. She felt cold. Numb. A sharp shove to her shoulder snapped her back. With a quiet prayer on her lips, she moved again.
At the hotel reception, the girl at the front desk stared intently at her computer screen, as if she had no peripheral vision, deliberately ignoring the guests, almost willing them not to approach with a question. Chloe wanted to ask if she could change rooms—the smoky hallway made her nauseous, but she stopped short of disturbing the girl at the front desk and headed straight for the elevators. She held her breath until she stepped into her room. It felt strange to be so sensitive to the scent of burnt cigarettes; after all, her mother had smoked all her life. There hadn’t been a single day growing up when the house didn’t smell of harsh, stale tobacco. Her mother’s job as a nurse at the general hospital rarely allowed breaks, but after dinner, she’d burn through half a pack of Camels on the porch, rocking slowly in her chair.
“Don’t you ever try one of these,” she’d tell Chloe in a hoarse voice, blowing out thick white smoke. “They’ll kill you the grisliest death. Trust me—I’ve seen plenty.” Chloe never thought her mom would die from smoking. She liked sitting beside her on the porch, the calm around them made her feel safe as if everything was going to be okay, as if her mother had it all under control.
The nausea she’d felt earlier was subsiding, but her head still felt heavy. She tried to read a book but ended up just staring at the page. Eventually, she opened the drawer of the bedside table to bury it. A cross and the words Holy Bible, embossed in gold inside a gilded border, stared back at her. Things always seem to follow you most when you’re trying to run from them, and right now, she felt like she needed a break from her faith, and it religiously followed her.
After a restless night spent replaying the day’s events in no particular order, sometimes even overlapping, Chloe awoke the next morning unsure whether she had dreamt through her sleep or hadn’t slept at all. The exhaustion was inescapable.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay. Will you be heading back home today?” the man at the front desk asked during checkout.
Chloe responded with a smile. She wasn’t sure—not yet.
“Do you mind holding on to my luggage until I return from some work?” she asked, her voice soft, almost guilt-ridden.
“Of course! Let me give you a tag for when you come back to pick it up,” the man replied. Chloe slipped the tag into her handbag, where the cookie and muffin had grown a day older.
Chloe felt as though her feet were dragging. The facility on Bleecker Street was only a couple of blocks away, but the walk felt endless. And the path from its front door to the reception desk was somehow even more treacherous.
“I have an appointment for—” Chloe couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes welled up, and the color drained from her face.
“It’s alright, honey. You don’t need to say the word,” the woman at the desk said gently. “Take a seat and fill out this form. Someone will be with you soon.”
Chloe’s hands trembled as she began to fill in the form.
Recent Symptoms:
☑ Nausea
☑ Excess fatigue
☑ Swelling in abdomen
☑ Breast tenderness
She stopped, broke off a piece of the cookie, just small enough to hide between her thumb and index finger, placed it on her tongue, and let it gently dissolve. Then she moved on to the next question.