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Because I had done this myself, I felt confident I could walk fast enough and straight enough that I didn’t need to use the flashlight. In my back pocket, I had scissors and in the other back pocket, the small flashlight, the police officers had given me. After retrieving the other from the basement, I stood them both side by side to concur that the police were giving out thin, probably easily breakable and cheap flashlights to power us all through this arctic blackout.
“Fine. Look Genevieve,” and I flashed the light several times on the floor next to her.
We could use some enjoyment. I let her play with it for five or so minutes before petting her head and giving her a few of the treats I found tucked behind her bag of cat food.
“We will be ok.”
The backyard had no gate or fence. You could walk straight from the alleyway into the back patio and be facing the back door with no obstruction within two minutes of entering. Because it was pitch black and I didn’t have the hazy glow of light pollution to guide me, it took me five minutes. I stepped carefully. I did not mumble. You could say I tiptoed. I tiptoe often. My father always said I walk on the tips of my feet only.
“You kind of dance everywhere,” and he moved his hands in front of him, sweeping them and stepping on the tops of his feet, mimicking, what I thought, some kind of Frankenstein.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing!”
He turned in circles and then grabbed me, bringing me into the ballet. The Allman Brothers were on. We began to twirl.
“Come on, kitten, dance with me!”
His smile bared down on me. When I felt the smooth side of the blade press my palm: cool, slick, unthinking and with just an accidental swipe, could pierce me,  I felt comfort. I thought of you.

The day I watched them quarrel, I had been ruminating. Because I had been ruminating, I had been mumbling to myself. Because I had been mumbling to myself, I was laying low. Because I was laying low, I overheard the couple quarrel.
“It is not my fault.”
“It is absolutely your fault. I said…”
She interrupted him, “I said, I didn’t have them, Steven! Jesus Christ, go get the spare. Come on! We have chicken out here that needs to be in the refrigerator!”
They were each carrying two to three bags each, placing them on the stoop and then pausing to yell at each other. I was at the corner. There was a bench and an opening to a very small park, more like a courtyard, and no one else was on the street.Just lifting my haunches, I leaned forward to peek.  I saw him throw his hands up.
“The key is under the gargoyle, Steven!” she sort of hissed it.
“I know where the spare is, Martha, tell everyone!”
He stomped back down the steps and turned to the left of the house, yanked on something and disappear into the wall.  I stood up but kept behind the brick, waiting til I heard the front door open for his scowling wife.
“Ok, Martha, let’s get the chicken inside.”
Cue, I turned the corner and refrained from making any spectacle. No mistake walk. No falling, sighing, humming, leering, jest. No interaction.  Steady gait, strong posture, watched them carry their bags two by two inside. Arrived at the bottom of their stoop to four more plastic bags and a strong urge to help swept over me; to introduce myself, shake hands, offer to carry things.. Look at the mahogany door instead. 456. I am on Mirch St.  I could see inside their house: living room in front, stairs in center and straight back to the kitchen like mine. I could see an island and that the back door was still open. I didn’t hear any dogs or children. No cats ran out. Their keys open the back door. When I heard them come down the stoop for the last four bags, I was already halfway up the block, self consumed again, arriving at no real solutions for the day.
My cheeks were dotted with condensation and my chest hurt. Felt like phlegm was building up. Swallowing, I felt a slight pain but it could be nerves. Don’t cough. Need to get vapor rub. No, no time for lists. The stores are closed. I swallowed the cough and felt my chest burn.
“It’s just the cold,” I whispered.
It was, I guessed 22 degrees and I stood shivering in front of 456 Mirch St at 2:46 am. Hands carefully halfway in each front pocket, I was fingering each knife. It had taken me less than fifteen minutes to get here and no obstacles presented themselves on the way. I avoided Dickinson Square, going towards the shopping center instead but cutting through side streets to get there. If anyone was awake, they were stealth too. If anyone saw me, they were too afraid to ask. Pausing below the mahogany door only to listen for shuffling, movement, secret light, a secret radio, I quickly crept to the white aluminum slatted door. It looked like a barn door. Seeing it as if it was my own, it felt like my own like I had just been transported back to my home. These are stories that help me. This is my home. I have the same door, the same walkway to the backyard, the same back entrance. I felt a weight both bearing down on me and leaving me as I quietly tugged it open with my ungloved, wan shaking hands.

The cops said that they would be patrolling in car and on foot all major shopping centers, intersections and parks. They also said the power will be on in a couple days. They said they don’t need a volunteer team yet because they government is providing sufficient amount of provisions. They said that this is an emergency but not a national crisis. Don’t bring up the riots.
“This town is provincial.”
“You think so?” Brown eyes perked up.
We had been silent the last four houses.
“We are concerned with our neighbors and our cars and our daily business but we aren’t so concerned about worldly matters.”
He scratched his chin.
“You from here?”
“Yes.”
“You kind of have a twaaang to you,” and he elongated it like that.
I shrugged and tried not to look at my phone.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I imagine many people are congregating to keep warm and safe. You said a lot of people evacuated right? How many do you think?”
He laughed but didn’t answer. I sat a moment waiting, hands in lap, trying not to clench my jaw or  act entitled or ask for anything. My posture was straight and I stared straight ahead. I watched him lick his lips and look from side to side and he added,
“I guess a few hundred. Not more than that.’
“Did you go door to door telling everyone the power would be on in a couple days?”
Brown eyes sighed a bit, “ We didn’t say it like a stock message but…”
“What neighborhood did you start with?”
My fingernails dug into my pants again. Brown eyes physically turned to the right and then paused before turning all the way around to face me.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a software programmer.”
“ A software programmer?”
“Yes,”
Relax your hands. I relaxed my hands.
“And has anyone ever told you that you should  have been a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
Letting out a small, yet endearing belly laugh, he turned back to face the windshield. We both listened to the squeak of the wipers the rest of the block.
Pulling on my rain boots, I make the same quick check I do before leaving the door. Stick both hands in my pockets: keys, phone. The phone is off but it makes me feel safe. In an emergency, I will use the switchblade that is taped to my left wrist and covered by coat sleeve. I have a larger knife in my front coat pocket. I have two pairs of leggings under my jeans, two sweatshirts under my coat, a hat, a scarf, a Rose of Jericho shell with the knife for luck and I have a pair of scissors in my back jeans pocket. It is 2:33 am and I open my front door.

I’m counting cans: three, and granules of cat food, seven scoops left. I am calling my dad with no answer and I am putting the phone away. I know what I need to do. I know where to go. I am counting flashlights, both full of batteries and next to the front door. I am counting water: half a gallon of potable water and the tap. I am counting times I saw this coming. I am counting the time the kid told me my teeth were yellow.
“Yeah, it’s even worse being a woman. They call you a hag before your forty if you have yellow teeth,” I say to him.
I smile to the mirror. Night has fallen and the rain is pouring and I am doing it anyway: looking at my yellow teeth, looking at the creases in my forehead, watching my breath form like crystals. I have the journal on my lap. I am counting minutes and I have watched myself, unmoved and creased at the mirror for twenty minutes. Genevieve is behind me on the couch. Her body is moving in soft waves as she sleeps. I am not looking at her but I can feel her I am counting times I knew this would happen and I am counting the space between us, growing. I have nine and a half bags of beans. I have temper, gumption, a general idea of the size of the average foot platoon (sixteen to forty four soldiers, easily matched in my opinion), and a spine that glints in the sun. It is 6:45 pm and I am waiting for something.

I never wanted them around.

Cut your teeth here. That’s what my boyfriend said to me when we moved to kensington. He said “cut your teeth here then leave.”

Locking the door, I started immediately to the cat,“Sorry sorry sorry” and marched to the kitchen. I hadn’t even bothered taking my boots off. I needed to make the beans. I could feel Genevieve’s rush towards me as I bent back over and lit the stove. I bent down and felt her fur graze my calf as I quickly pulled off the lid  of her food.
“Sorry for rushing out without feeding you.’
Plopping on the ground, I surrendered, gave her the whole can. My knees hurt. Her face was buried in tin and I finally let the third wave hit. Me, still in coat and hat and scarf and layers. Me, seeing my breath in this apartment. Me, counting each time: three cans and I can see specs on the floor. I need to sweep. An arithmomaniac and I am counting days, missed calls, and I am not calling anyone back yet.  Not so much a sob, but a drop, at least three hit the floor next to us, next to the crumbs of crackers from a previous binge. Her body blurred but I could hear her purring as she devoured the Spam packed chicken with glory, ignorant. She would eat the crumbs out of my hand. Two more drops hit.
“I thought I had a plan but I didn’t.”
I pet the top of he head as she ate. She allows this in times of emotion. Murmurs of contrition slipping out of me, these bumbling apologies she can’t hear and  leaned my back against the oven door, the heat from the burner warming the top of my head. It was enough for now.

I tried to scroll through quickly without any visible panic. A few from her, then my dad, then nothing.  An internal sigh took over. No one really misses me. A shattering; the relief from being unburdened by others’ want of you. Freedom comes from breaking ties. I walk through the first glass window: hold no one, miss no one.
“Did it work?” he tried to catch my eye in the mirror.
I was still staring, counting actually, each call from my dad, when they stopped, the pause in between, when they started. Did this start two days ago?
“What?”
“I said, did it work, your phone, all good?”
His eyes were narrowed, not wide as they had been before. Speculating. His face showed no outward expression. These are trained hit men. He had no smile, set brown eyes, a trained murderer. Suddenly, frozen and careful. Suddenly aware of myself again, my body, my stature locked in the back of the cop car and looking too panicked. Suddenly looking so anxious when I’m near the phone and dissociating. Suddenly talking before I had formulated the thought.
“Oh yeah,” I made sure to make eye contact with him. “My dad just texted me checking in. They have power.”
I put my left hand up and then down again quickly; that feminine gesture of “no biggie.”
Smile.
I smiled.
“Great,’” he nodded. “We are going to start moving soon.”
We rode the block in silence. Relax your jaw. I was trying to think of what to ask next, trying to keep my searches clandestine and to the point. Googled “riot.” Looked out the window as we turned the corner. Googled “Philadelphia riot.” Straightened my back. Googled “Virginia blackout.” Bit my lip.  Googled “is my father dead?” Let the second wave hit. It is almost as if you are growing in it. Too much information. Violence everywhere. Coastal blackouts. They are acting like we just had a loose tree on a windy day snapping the wires down. You cannot ask them anything else. You cannot ask them anything else.
“I cannot ask them anything else.”
“Hmm?” Blue eyes perked up, turning his head towards me from the front passenger seat.
I was directly behind him. We had stopped at the first house on the next block.
“What?”
My wrists were aching, stinging. It was a familiar feeling; a comforting feeling, a missed feeling but one I had tried to break. The way I cradled my phone in my lap; so desperately tight and my eyes immediately felt dry and strained just staring at the white with tiny blue lettering, and from a distance. Kept the phone on my lap so as not to arouse suspicion. If I squinted a little, I could see it. “What is the weather in Norfolk, Virginia?”
“You always do that.”
“What?”
He turned the laptop to face me.
“Type questions in search engines like you have to use complete sentences?”
“Well…”
“Well,” he cut in and walked towards me, hands out, “what DO foxes do in winter? Do they hibernate? Do they hide underground? Do they wear parkas and boots and go for long endless walks for hours, ignoring their partners?Your last search asked DIRECTLY what do foxes do in winter? For fun, I assume”
This is contempt. I let him press his lips to mine and hid the shrug, ready to push his stomach gently, ready to coax him out of embrace. When we did the one word exercise today, it was perfunctory. If I had to describe myself in one word, today, it would be perfunctory.
“I have work to do.”
“It’s endearing.”
“My workaholism?”
I was already heading to the bedroom to get changed, back towards him, scanning the room for my boots and parka and headphones.
“Everything.”
I am in the back of a cop car with two cops.
“Oh, I was just mumbling.”
Blue eyes opened the front door and I felt the winter again. This car was heated and armed. He let the door slam.
“What happens when you run out of fuel? How will you patrol?” I suddenly emboldened.
Googled “What are police cars made out of?” I knew that was wrong. Google “bulletproof cop cars.” Google “army tank material.” Google “fuel crisis in America.” Google…
“You ask a lot of questions,” he smiled but it was snide, sort of slanted at the jaw. “Our feet.”
A fox in winter keeps hunting but stays closer to home. It is freezing. Feeling eyes boring hot holes in my stomach, I sit quiet and tight. He was looking at me, looking at pictures of rubber bullet marks and he was certain he did not want to see me again either. Sit in silence. Fold your hands and then unfold them. Pick the phone back up. He’s watching his partner. Discerning. One of the times you played the one word game, you said discerning. Google “futile.” No, kitty cat,
Google “average size of army troop.”

xxx

mood swings,
kind of mired in
a circular prophecy
that she keeps repeating.
silent in spurts,
frozen when alarmed but
then bursts in and says to
me: “are you fucking
watching me?”
like we’ve been talking
all this time.

“how guys save me in their phone #12”