Free Hooked by Claire Adams

noting that she had to
pick her son up from the babysitter. I thanked her for being there today,
reminding her that the following day’s schedule was a bit different. She
nodded; she had never forgotten anything about Molly Says Dance, anyway. I
didn’t know why I doubted her.
    When I finished shredding the last of the pieces of
paper, I tossed them in the recycling, pushed my arms through my coat, and
rushed out into the windy city. I locked the building behind me, although I
didn’t know why. It wasn’t mine anymore. I had nothing to protect. It was like
my heart; I was locking it, but it was ultimately going to be raped by someone
or something.
    The red brick of the building that rose into the sky
was so ancient, so beautiful. I rubbed my fingers against the harsh material
and then began the short walk back to my apartment. The air felt shriller than
it had the previous evening, when I had been out with Drew. The autumn was
folding into the September month, although I didn’t want it to. I wanted to
retain the sweetness of the summer. I sighed, thinking about Drew once more,
how perfect our bodies had been together!
    I arrived at my apartment when the city began to
erupt into its evening lights. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, and
there was something ancient, something mystical about the evening. I felt no
brightness, only a sense of evil lurking beneath every shadow.
    I shuffled up the four floors to my apartment,
feeling my heart beating heavy in my chest. I pulled out my keys and had to
stare at them for several moments before realizing—ah ha—which one was actually
my house key. I felt strange, soft, as if I was drunk.
    I hustled into my apartment, hearing the burdened
meows from the corner. Shit. I had forgotten to come home earlier in the day to
feed Boomer. I hadn’t been home in over twenty-four hours, and I was certain he
was so hungry. I hurried toward him, picking him up in my arms. He looked at me
with bright, yellow eyes. Was he angry? I felt his fur, the soft kind around
his face, and kissed the top of his head. He smelled comforting, like home. He
meowed in my ear, then, and I rushed to the kitchen to fill his bowl. He ate
heartily, bringing each of the kibble bits into his mouth and chomping away
with tiny, rodent-like teeth.
    I searched my refrigerator for something to eat for
myself, but I came up empty. I realized I had been neglecting much of my life
in the wake of this Drew realization. In the back of the freezer, I found
whiskey, and I poured it languidly into my short glass. I felt like my
grandfather once more—drinking whiskey like an old man of the west.
    My balcony was positioned directly off from my
living room. I pushed the door open, feeling the absurd wind wash over me
initially before filtering away—as if it were a warning. I looked back toward
my cat who continued to eat ravenously, grabbed a blanket from the couch, and
curled up on the floor of the balcony—on the stone, leaning heavy against the
railings. I reached into my coat pocket, where I kept a half a pack of
cigarettes, always. I opened it, noting that the pack still had the same hearty
number it had had the previous month; 10 cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in over
thirty days. But I needed one, in that moment. I lit the end of it, sticking it
in the side of my mouth and inhaling. I felt the fire in my throat, down in my
lungs. But I liked the pain. It forced my brain away from the issue at hand.
    I was fucked.
    It was true. I inhaled the smoke and exhaled it in
intricate smoke rings—something I had learned as a ballerina at Butler, when
eating was no option but smoking was the ultimate lunch break. I curled back
against the railings, further and further, hearing the spattering of horns, of
traffic beneath me. God, I loved this neighborhood. God, I loved cigarettes. I
peered up above me at the stars. I could hardly see them, given the intensity
of the lights below. But there they were, like small bits of salt