By Arvilla Fee

My key turns the lock; I open my door and freeze. Something is different in my flat. Off. Only turning my head, feet still planted in the entryway, I look around at the one room that serves as my living room, kitchen, bed and bath. Nothing. The vase of orange dahlias still sits in the center of the table. The bed is still neatly made with the starry; cosmic quilt gifted to me by my grandmother; the recliner bare, save for my favorite mouse-brown sweater. 

Then it hits me—the smell. Cigarette smoke with undertones of sweat. Noah has found me! My insides turn to liquid, and I drop my keys on the hardwood floor. Pick them up again. Hold them between my fingers like tiny daggers. It’s not possible, is it? It’s been five months! Five months since my last bruise. My last broken finger. I’d started with a clean slate. Working for tips. Paying with cash. No paper trail. But that smell. It’s now crawling up my nose. Up my spine. Short circuiting my brain with memories of lying on a floor back in Queens, him standing above me, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. You know I love you.” 

Like hell he did. Like hell! I move slowly, careful to avoid the creaky boards. I know this flat—this little piece of heaven that is just mine. The only thing that’s ever been just mine. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it go. I peep around the bathroom door that’s open a crack—the shower curtain is still closed where I pulled it to this morning. But is that a shadow? One of those movie scenes where I rip back the curtain and a monster leaps on me like a rabid dog? 

A dog barks and I jump. It sounds like it’s in this room. Then a breeze flutters my silky blue curtains like butterfly wings. Oh, God! The window is open! Picking up the Swiffer mop in the corner, I use the handle to push open the shower curtain. Nothing. No one. And the window—did I leave it open? I’d been so hot after my shower. Maybe. Yes—I did. For the first time ever—I did! I peer over the sill and scan the second floor balconies below me. 

Someone with large brown eyes and a tousled head of black curls is staring up at me. “Oh, hey, June,” he says after blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air. “How’s it going?”

I clutch the Swiffer handle for support, my heart in my throat. It’s only Devon. My goofy, pizza-delivery-guy-video-game-playing neighbor, Devon. Not Noah. Not Noah. 

“Hey, Devon,” I manage with a limp smile. “Good to see you.”

He lifts an empty solo cup in a mock toast. “Back at ya.” 

I close the window, put down the Swiffer, and crawl into my bed, hugging the star quilt to my chest—the flat once again smelling deliciously, raspberrily, of me. 

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Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her six children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 130 magazines. Her four poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces, and The Stars Above Us are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her online magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/