A
deep thud echoes from the sole door that’s partially cracked open. I elongate
my short neck as if I could catch that fat dude from before off guard. I lean
too far, spotting crimson stains on the door handle. It has to be lipstick. MAC
lipstick, actually. No one ever died in an interrogation room, right? I
shudder. Suddenly, all those movies that kept me under the covers as a kid flood
into my mind. I block out the “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you” by placing my
hands over my ears. It didn’t work for me as a pre-teen (in the 90th
percentile for height), but maybe it would for a nightmare I created
myself.
The
door opens and a man with grey slacks, a tucked in off-white button down, and a
loose tie steps in. His eyes fixate down at an open manila folder. What
happened to the at least 210 lb man with rosacea? I feel like a stand-in for
the movie Face/Off. Nicholas Cage is now John Travolta and I’m secretly Kelly Preston.
My mouth becomes agape although I don’t recall how or when. I shrug off my
embarrassment by leaning back in my chair. I want to smell the collar of his
shirt and watch his face light up because it tickles him. I bite my lip,
rolling my tongue over my teeth trying not to—
“Miss—Ah,
here we go. Lily, is it? And a Miss.”
“Ex-cuse me?” I flatten my tongue.
He
pulls out the chair across from me, chuckling. I must’ve missed the joke. “Oh,
no no. I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.”
And
here I thought dumb, donut-stuffed cops were a rumor. “Vans-Bur-sick. Didn’t
the other guy tell you?”
“Other
guy?” He looks up, pressing his lips together. I can’t tell if it was
intentional. “George? The uh—” he puts his hands up around his waist a foot
away from his shirt.
I’m
on the edge of my seat, my breasts nearly touching the table. His eyes look
flirty, but it’s probably the lights. I straighten my back attempting to look
as uncaring as possible, crossing my arms. “Yeah, who are you?”
He
smiles. “These lights need some adjusting.”
“Last
time, they…”
“Last
time?”
“Who
are you, anyway?”
“Well,
I’m—“
“No,
you’re the good cop. And this isn’t necessary,” I say, lifting up my cuffed
right hand. I need him to pay attention. I need to make him look at me the way
I’m looking at him.
“I’m
Adam Couldry.”
“Well,
thank God you didn’t say Freddy. I’m tired and pissed the fuck off, Adam.
Mister, right?”
His
smile does a 180 that looks cute as hell and he sets the manila folder on the
table. “Lily—“
“No.
I already got hammered with questions about something I did not, I repeat, I
did not do. This is my purse. I got
it as a gift. I’m not even
Christian,” I say, laying my head on the table. “Jesus Christ.”
“We
got the video footage back,” he says, handing me a stack of black and white
still photos of the Nordstrom’s I wandered drunk in with my girl “friends” last
night. My head shoots up. Colored printing isn’t new, is it? I can’t even tell
us apart. I tilt my head side to side as if I’m warming up for hot yoga. His
eyes burst like dandelion seeds. A slender woman in the photograph has hair two
shades darker than me. It could be five shades or no shades, the quality knows
no difference. Random images of a knocked over pyramid display coupled with a
trail of urine, no wait, tequila (right?) flash in my head, fading instantly.
Talk about Déjà vu. Last year it was whiskey, now that I think about it. Some
makeup instead of a purse. But always with Marge. The images continue to flash
in and out of my head to the echo of my own voice whispering “I’ll never do it again.”
He
begins to organize them back into a pile, “You’re free to go. We know you
didn’t take anything.”
I
stare at the table long after the pictures are removed. That’s it?
“Miss,
I mean, Lily? It’s getting late. You better get home.” He frees my hand,
walking over to the door.
I
stand up, my heart dropping into my stomach. I’m leaving. Last year I left, right after I was shoved against the two
way mirror, asked to whisper, to the people on the other side who heard it as
yelling.
“I’m
so sorry to put you through this and on a Tuesday no less,” Adam says, holding
the door open. My feet struggle to keep
up with my legs.
“It’s
fine,” I say, feeling like the littlest girl in a Russian doll set.
“I
would offer to buy you tacos,” he laughs, “but they’ll be serving omelets in a
few hours.”
A
man that enjoys breakfast and is up to actually have it: he can’t be that good.
We exit the room into the unusually crowded hallway of uniforms. I can count
the smiles on one hand. “I could go for one of those,” my voice cracks.
He
walks alongside me, an imaginary heater floating between us. He takes a deep
breath, “Oh, I mean. If you want?”
I
look up at him, regretting it as soon as I do. His eyes are a defibrillator to
my rigid, scared heart that has sunk to my thighs by now. “Wh-what?”
“I
thought you were asking me to, uh, breakfast?” He scans my face. God forbid I
have stress acne. “Wow, that is clearly inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”
I
wipe my sweaty palms against my sides, laughing. “You apologize too much. I
love breakfast.”
“I
get off at 7. Too early?”
“Not
early enough.”
“Eight
it is. The Broken Yolk across the way. Look for the cops standing outside with
donuts in their hands.”
A
lady with a floor-length skirt pulls Adam aside and he disappears into a filing
room. I don’t mind. All I can think about are cheesy omelets and how to get the
hell out of this station. I turn towards the woman again, realizing she checked
me in last year. Her hair was black. Mine too. Except my face looked like
something out of a Picasso painting with all the bruises. Marge “accidentally”
knocked me over while running out of the store. Accidents happen often enough
to not be accidents around her.
I shake off my
chills and find my way to the double doors that lead out. They should have exit
signs, but then I remember the people who actually want to leave never do. I
clutch my purse as if it’s the one Marge ran out with. Did she even take one? The
doors were gray last night but they’re as bright and blue as Adam’s eyes now. I
want to order something small at the restaurant. Or maybe big. Or maybe I’ll
stuff him with enough breakfast to make him incoherent enough to do anything
but kiss me. But I want to hear him talk. I’ll order hash browns and take huge
bits as I nod at the sweet melody coming out of his mouth with the occasional
head nod (sorry I’m eating and have drunchies from too much tequila and not
enough tacos).
Outside,
the sun peaks over the Broken Yolk. I don’t know what time it is nor do I care.
I didn’t sleep and I won’t for a while. Freddy didn’t even need to haunt me. I
head away from the precinct, counting cops cars lingering in front of the
restaurant as lions would to their prey. All they have to do is turn their
heads and see that I’m the weakest prey. My stomach grumbles.
I attempt to
find my car, less than surprised that it has been towed or borrowed by my
“friends”. I don’t bother to take out my phone. I can use it as an excuse after
breakfast to get Adam to stick around a little longer. Post-breakfast
accidental sex is a thing, isn’t it?
I adjust my coat
and head towards downtown instead. How ironic of the local precinct to be in
the heart of the social life of LA. I close my eyes for a moment, putting
together the puzzle pieces of socialite last night. Margaret (Marge) was there,
of course. Janie and Anne too. No, Anne bailed last minute. Marge saw the purse
first. I touched the strap first. Anne would have said no.
I should have
said no. Marge got to me again. She used her snake charmer voice to get
me to go in the store. And I just made
an ass out of Adam because of it. I walked beside him with a white ink tattoo
on my forehead that spells “GUILTY” and laughed at his dorkiness. I stare at my
boots clacking on the concrete. “3…4…lock the door....” I nearly trips over
nothing when a click bounces between my ears. I am Freddy.
“Excuse
me, Miss?”
“I
hate that word,” I say, turning to face a boy no older than seventeen with an
apron around his waist. A hand drawn sign hangs loose in his hands.
I
read it aloud: “Fresh scones, half off. Wow, how generous.”
“They’re
reallllly good. I promise.”
“Thanks,
but I’m not hungry.” I walk away like I have somewhere to be in Canada, the
thunder in my stomach sending a shower of laughter to the barista.
He
put a fist over his mouth to cover it up. “Being busy is okay too.”
“I’m
not--” I start to say, staring at the barista’s boring brown eyes. A knocking
from inside my chest shakes me. Adam’s face fades, the trail of tequila
becoming a mustard-colored pool around a pyramid of designer purses. Numbers
swim through the river, climbing up the shelves. Marge stands at the top, donuts
floating out of her mouth singing “5…6…”
“I’m
not Freddy,” I blurt out. “She is.”
“Excuse
me…?”
“Uhm,
uh do you have…blueberry?”
He
nods. “The size of your face if you could believe it.”
“I’ll
get a coffee too.”
“So
you don’t have anywhere to be?”
I
laugh out loud, startling him. “Let me just make a quick phone call.”
I
step aside, dialing Marge. She answers, sounding groggy. “Hey Marge, I have
this gorgeous friend who’s dying to take you out to breakfast. Would you like
to meet him?”
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