Page 5 of On the Line

Lost in a swirl of anxious thoughts, I realize I’ve stopped painting, the brush hovering over the watercolor palette. I puff out a heavy sigh and close my eyes. Trying to recenter, I focus on the quiet sounds of the small neighborhood park I found close to my apartment, adjacent to a communal garden. The sun’s rays peek through the leaves, warming my cheeks, the sunlight red against my closed eyelids. Gradually, my mind wanders back into a state of mindfulness. Until my phone jars me back to reality. I pat the blanket beside me, reaching for it.

It’s a text from Zachary.

Before heading to the park, I’d messaged him, asking him how his day was going.

Now staring at his one-word answer to my question, my stomach sinks.

Because I know what one-word answers mean.

He’s in a bad mood.

I don’t know what caused it but one thing I know for sure is that it’s somehow my fault. My mind suddenly flies into high alert, quickly trying to decipher what previous actions could be to blame.

Did I post something too provocative on social media?

Did I say something in the wrong tone?

Whatever it is, it leaves a hard rock of anxious anticipation in the pit of my stomach.

What’s wrong?I message back. Immediately on fix-it mode. Hurriedly gathering my things, I walk back home and wait for Zachary to text me back.

Or maybe he’ll ignore me all day.

I never know how he’ll react.

I simply brace for the worst.

I’ve been walkingall afternoon.

I didn’t wear the right shoes for this. The balls of my feet are aching, and my thighs are chafing under my button-front skirt. Inside my tote, I only have one resume left inside the blue legal folder. I had to go print it out at FedEx since I don’t own a printer anymore.

I’ve never been so humbled than when my employment history was staring back at me on a white sheet of paper … It screamedrich kid who barely worked a day in her life.

Swim coach at the Royal Bay Yacht Club.

Internship at La Porte Rouge Gallery.

Babysitter.

I deleted the last one out of sheer embarrassment and added a few carefully constructed lies instead. And then added a few well-known restaurants to solidify the fib.

Luckily, I did waitress one summer at a crab shack in the small town near our summer home. Zachary called it cosplaying at being poor. I didn’t need the money, it was just another one of my whimsies, a glamorized scenario where the reality was much more boring.

I didn’t last a month.

At least now it helps me embellish my resume.

I feel like a fake but I’m desperate.

I’m standing on the corner of 23rd and Miller, in the busy Central Business District, deliberating my next move, when my gaze lands on an unassuming sign.

Orso.

Black block letters. No frills. The name of a restaurant as far as I can tell.

I chew on my bottom lip while I deliberate further. I can’t peel my eyes away from the front door. I’m not sure why. Only that I feel called to it. A gust of wind pushes at my back as if coaxing me forward. I take it as a sign from the universe and cross the street. Trying not to let my nerves get the best of me, I force myself not to second guess it. I reach for the door. The metal handle is warm from the afternoon sun under my palm.

I pull.

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