Her

If she lay in bed for a few moments longer perhaps she’d be ready for that sharp hello. Or better yet, better yet, maybe she could sneak outside before anyone else was up, walk down the driveway past the magnolias and find a quiet place to sit. Life is an interpretative act, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the floor of the mind. What did his father mean when he said that he liked her choice of major? Why didn’t his mother offer her a glass of wine?

                She slipped out of bed, into her clothes and contacts and walked downstairs. Something was going to have to happen with her breath before she spoke to someone from within five feet. The house was old and the stairs creaked, reverberating in her mind as if they were fireworks booming. She wanted to be a ghost. She wanted to slip through walls and observe a conversation about herself without her being present. She had to walk through the kitchen to get to the front door and to her shoes. It felt like a really slow adventure novel.

                His mother was washing dishes at the sink. The kitchen was south facing, and a large bay window brought in the first bits of morning light. In the yard, evergreens shifted in the breeze. A row of yellow daffodils ran in a row along the house, interspersed with Hollie and azaleas.

                “Oh darling,” Janet said, turning from the kitchen sink, arms half-covered in flour, “how are you this morning?”

                She didn’t remember the crash or the rescue in detail. Bits and pieces of it came back to her in flashes. She couldn’t remember if she knew that guy sitting next to her was attractive before or after the crash. He said he remembered seeing people, strands of hair floating aimlessly before they were carried to safety. Now sometimes when she remembered the crash she was those same people, but she knew that they weren’t a part of her memories, but of his.

                “I’m lovely,” she said, “just lovely.”

                “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Janet said, turning back towards the sink and spreading dough across a baking sheet, covered in flour. “I wanted to make something nice for everyone. Not that they’ll appreciate it,” she said, smiling.

                She didn’t know how to escape, or whether she even needed to escape. How could it be so terrible to have a conversation with someone’s pleasant mother? Her hands white knuckled the chair as away from Janet’s gaze, she had to either make a move towards the door or sit and be a part of the morning, sacrificing that bit of solitude that she knew she wanted.

                “Can I get you anything?” Janet asked, and Lauren sat, pulling her chair around to face the kitchen, so they could talk together with ease.