I don’t want to see anyone in my current state so I ignore it. Maybe if I’m lucky whoever it is will go away.
Apparently I’m not that lucky.
There’s more knocking.
I’ve lived in my tiny studio apartment for the last five years. I realize it’s not much, but it’s what I can afford on a public servant’s salary in very expensive Southern California. I prefer to think of my closet-sized dwelling as cozy. I work crazy hours so it’s not like I’m home that much anyway. I basically just need a place to crash and shower.
I’ve been crying for the last five hours and twenty-eight minutes. I’ve gone through six boxes of heavy two-ply tissues that are now scattered all over my living room floor.
The person at the door isn’t going to give up without a fight. He or she has decided to start pounding.
“Who…is…it?” I manage to chirp between heavy sobs.
