Florence in Ecstasy. Jessie Chaffee

I go on vacation…”

      I start over: break the list up into compartments, slide the toast to one side, put the wine in its own square—a larger square, it’s true. Alcohol counts, isn’t air, I know this. But it gets me through, so I account for it. Leave room.

      “…è diverso…”

      I return to the salad. Take it apart. Compress the pieces.

      “…che cazzo…”

      A roll of green. Slivered tomatoes. A sheet of cheese, almost translucent.

      “…non voglio ma…”

      There is no place for the almonds, a handful this evening before going out.

      “…è un casino.”

      Finally the salmon. Five pieces. Slimy. I feel them already swimming in my stomach.

      “She says to me, ‘Dario…’”

      Then I stack the items, one on top of the next. They become a tower, tall and spindly.

      “Che posso fare?”

      But it does not feel spindly, this tower. I feel the weight of it.

      “Così è la vita…”

      The almonds sit to the side, disturbing. I cannot place them on top.

      “…però in futuro…”

      I dare not.

      “…credere—” Dario’s phone rings. “Cazzo,” he bellows, picking it up and walking quickly to the corner of the bar.

      I look again at the tower. Close my eyes. Try to figure it out. Start over.

      Giggling behind me. I open my eyes. In the mirror I can see the American couple—they are looking this way, the woman with her hand over her mouth. Why? I look at my reflection. What does she see? A woman, almost thirty, older than her, I must be older than her, my face drawn and serious. My hair is limp. I blew it dry before going out, in spite of the heat, and it should frame my features, dark. But it didn’t work and it’s gone limp, sits flat, hangs to my shoulders in strings. Like the men outside. Like dribble. Strings of dribble.

      There is something I’ve forgotten to do. Somehow during the day, over the course of this evening, I lost it. I try to focus, to grasp it, but it’s gone, out of reach, disappeared. Why can’t I hold on to anything? Always it slips and slips and slips.

      A voice shouting. Is it mine? No. Outside. A man is shouting at someone or something in the street.

      “Magari.” Dario sighs loudly. “Hai visto? What I have to do. Always busy.” He disappears outside, and I open my purse and leave money on the counter. Too much I think, but I’ll go. Before Dario comes back and I let him walk me out, I’ll go. I glance quickly for the waitress, but she’s disappeared as well. There’s only the smug couple now.

      Outside it is dark, but still the air sticks. I hear raised voices behind me and they chase me on. The stones catch my heels, echoing loud each time. There is something I’ve forgotten to do. My street is empty and the music from the club beats loud. The door of the building feels heavy, the air in the lobby is heavy, too. I hit the switch of the timed light and, with a click, the stairwell illuminates but goes dark by the time I reach the third floor. I put my hand on the wall and find my way up, my steps loud and clumsy, and somewhere below a door opens.

      “Signorina?” The landlady—what else does she want from me?—and I speed up, catch my thigh on the edge of the banister rounding the corner. It feels hot, spreads, will bruise. I hear the phone ringing, shrill, as I get to my landing.

      Yes, that’s it. I’ve forgotten again. Four, five, six rings. I find my door, put the key in the lock. Turn one, two, three times. The ringing continues. Seven, eight, nine. The door swings in and the sound pierces. Ten, eleven, twelve.

      “Hannah?” My sister’s voice hits like cold water, pulls me in. Even this far away, I feel pulled. Weighted. I breathe in, breathe out.

      “Honey, are you okay?”

      I nod. I will not cry.

      “Hannah?”

      “I’m fine. I just hurt my leg.”

      “What? What do you mean?” Kate is suspicious. She is always suspicious.

      “Nothing. I don’t know. I just got home.”

      “The list, Hannah. It’s been five days. You didn’t—”

      The list. My inventory. The tower swims in front of me now in the dark. Laughter bubbles up from downstairs. “Bastardo!” a man shouts. More laughter.

      “You can’t do this, Hannah.” I see her seated on a stool by her counter, dialing and redialing, intent on mending. She is a mender.

      “I’m fine.” I see the words and then say them. “I’ve just been busy.”

      “With what? What do you do all day?” She stops. “I’m sorry. How are things?”

      “I went out to dinner,” I say. “And I was going to write you, but I forgot.”

      “Hannah, you can’t forget. That’s the deal.”

      That is our agreement. Every three days: the list. That and no scales—but Kate doesn’t know about the orange scale, purchased on my first day here. And I do send the list. Today was different, though, and my words begin tumbling now, spilling out of me as I explain—the meal, the wine, the men, the shouting, the wad of money left on the bar. “Too much, but I needed to leave before Dario came back. And then I forgot to write you. Because of everything that was happening.”

      I’ve fucked it up. I know it before she speaks.

      “What are you talking about? Who’s Dario?”

      I think through it. The mirror, the almonds, the shouting. There’s an answer in it I can’t find. It slips and slips and slips. I give up—it won’t make sense to her. Kate breathes in sharply, and I can see her looking out her window as though she can see me all these miles away.

      “We’ll talk about it next week,” she says. “When you’re back.”

      And now I’ll have to tell her. “I’m not leaving.”

      “What? Are you—”

      “I’m staying. A little while longer. I already changed it—my ticket. It’s done.”

      “Are you sure? Don’t you think it’s time to come home? To start looking for work? Have you started looking? Or don’t worry about that. You can stay with us.”

      “No,” I say quietly.

      “Hannah—” Her voice catches. “You can’t just disappear.”

      That’s what she’s afraid of, my total erasure. I am disappearing. But not anymore. Not anymore.

      “This was supposed to be a break,” she pleads. “A break. That’s what you said. But it’s been a month. What are you going to do for money? How are you going to live?”

      “I’m fine,” I say, focusing on the words.

      “I don’t understand this. I don’t know what to do.”

      It is the same voice I heard months ago, when I had gone as deep and as low as I would go. The voice that reflected back to me the rock bottomness of my existence.

      “Won’t you come home?”

      My anger surges up, cuts through the fog, and I’m surprised at the growl in my voice when I say, again, “No.” It doesn’t sound anything like me. It’s mine, I want to say. I don’t know what it is, but it’s mine.

      Kate