Page 51 of Back to Me

I decide to leave my purse at home. The last thing I’d want to do is lug around my purse and a giant bag of groceries. Grabbing my wallet out of my purse, I drop it into my empty reusable shopping bag and swipe my keys from the end table by the front door.

Once I make it down the elevator and through the front lobby, I’m thankful for the already setting sun hanging low in the sky. The air has cooled slightly, and when I glance up, the sky is painted with the most beautiful shades of orange and purple I’ve ever seen. The color is rich and saturated, the clouds stretched out, almost as if they were brushed against the darkening blue sky behind them. With my feet hitting the pavement and feeling the warm air breeze across my face, I close my eyes and wish Graham were here to see this with me. After a few seconds enjoying the moment, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the beauty above me, sending it to Graham, hoping it will somehow make him feel a little better about being stuck in traffic. Within seconds he sends me back another picture. The picture is of his driver’s side window, but the camera is focused on the sky above. Shades of orange and purple are painted across a similar sky to mine. Heat rises in my cheeks when I read the message typed out below.

Graham: At least we can watch this beautiful sunset together.

Sara: I was thinking the same. Has the traffic gotten any better?

Graham: I’ve moved about ten feet since I got off the phone with you.

Sara: Oh no. Hopefully, it will move soon. Already on my way to the—

I don’t finish typing out my sentence when my feet stumble backward and my shoulder jolts, immediately stopping me on the sidewalk. A pain spreads, radiating across my entire shoulder and into my chest. It takes a moment for me to understand what happened. Looking up from my phone to see who it or what it was, I squint my eyes against the setting sun, searching the people around me. The street is slightly crowded since it’s late afternoon and without realizing it, I’ve made it to the intersection where I need to turn to head toward the grocery store. Seas and crowds of people continuously flood past me in all different directions. It would be impossible to figure out who it was. Although the pain continues to pulse in my shoulder, I convince myself it was no more than a mere accident. It must have been someone who was casually walking by and misjudged how close they were to me.

Ignoring the dull aching pain growing beneath my skin, I finish my text to Graham and continue walking in the direction of the store.

As soon as I step through the automatic sliding doors, the incident on the street is nearly forgotten and the pain inflicted on my shoulder is chalked up to an insignificant accident.

I pull out my grocery list and read off the ingredients, deciding to start with the produce section, knowing I’ll need most of my ingredients from there. After grabbing the first few items, I walk over to the herbs, remembering to grab two bundles of cilantro for my double batch of chimichurri sauce. Picking out the two I think look the best, I drop them into my bag. As the cilantro releases from my fingers and falls into the basket, the same chill runs down my spine from earlier. The hair stands on the back of my neck, and I look at my arm. Every hair stands on end as my skin lines with goosebumps. An inexplicable feeling washes over me like I’m somehow being watched or followed, just as I had on the street. My throat tightens, and I look up, searching the small produce area, but I see no one except a mother and her child in a cart built to look like a red race car.

My fingers shake as I reach into my back pocket and slide out my phone. Finished with the produce section, I head over to grab my last few items and call Graham.

“Hey, baby. I’m still in traffic, what’s up?”

I sigh, relieved to hear Graham’s voice. Hearing just those few words, my irrational fear is nearly washed away.

“Hey, I don’t know. I just needed to hear your voice, I guess.” I rub the back of my neck, hoping to rid myself of this lingering feeling.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

Suddenly, I regret calling Graham for such a ridiculous feeling. What was I going to say? ‘Oh, hey, I know you’re stuck in traffic, and this will only make you worry, but I have this eerie feeling I’m being followed.’

Shaking my head, I suddenly feel silly. As I approach the Mexican food aisle, I spot the shelf with tortillas. “Nothing,” I say, scrambling to come up with an explanation for my phone call. “I forgot which kind of tortillas you liked, but now I remembered.”

“Okay,” he hesitates. I can sense his uncertainty. He knows I’m lying or at the least omitting, but he doesn’t question me on my odd behavior. “Well, I’m a little closer to home, but I’m still stuck. The traffic is slow going with all this construction. They’ve closed it down to one lane, so everyone is trying to merge.”

Snatching up a bag of corn tortillas, I shuffle my way over to the self-checkout. Keeping my phone pressed between my cheek and my shoulder, I nervously look around, feeling my paranoia get the better of me.

“Okay, I’m checking out now. I’ll see you at home.”

“I love you.”

“Me too.” I smile against my phone before pressing the red button and returning it to the back pocket of my shorts.

After paying for everything, I walk back home, feeling more nervous than I had on the way to the store. Every nerve is standing on end, and I find myself looking over my shoulder every other second. Over and over, I tell myself I’m being silly, I have no reason to feel the way I do. Despite the constant mantra running through my mind, I still haven’t shaken this uneasy feeling when I step into the front lobby to my apartment building.

The lobby is empty, yet the warmth and familiarity of this place make me feel safe. The queasy, nervous feeling completely disappears when I press the elevator button. I’m thankful I don’t have to wait long for the doors to open when I step inside, anxious to get started on our dinner.

The elevator is empty, and I stand in the middle, leaning forward just enough to press the button to my floor. The doors begin to close, but before they close completely, a hand slides between them, forcing them to slide back open. A man dressed in torn jeans and a dark blue hoodie steps in and without a thought, I slide over, giving him enough space in the small area.

The stranger’s head remains turned down, the edge of his ball cap dipped low, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his hat, covering his face. As the doors slowly close once more, he presses the button to the tenth floor. I adjust the strap of my grocery bag and stare at my reflection, patiently waiting as we reach each floor, listening to the subtle humming of the rising elevator. The shiny doors are covered in a mirrored bronze, giving the space a golden hue, reflecting off the marble tile beneath my feet.

Staring at the man’s beat up, worn Converse shoes in the reflection, I try to think of a time when I’ve seen him before. Running through all my neighbors who live on the same floor, I can’t think of anyone resembling the way this man is dressed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Maybe he just moved in. Maybe he’s visiting a friend.

My eyes dart from his shoes to his hand sliding out from his sweatshirt. When we’ve nearly reached the tenth floor, I watch in confusion as he reaches out to the panel of buttons. I’m thinking he’s selecting a different floor, but my heart sinks, and my stomach turns when I see his finger press the red emergency stop button.

Suddenly, we stop, my body jolting as I reach out to stabilize myself against the metal door in front of me. Confused, I turn toward the man standing beside me, panic rising in my throat, staring at the strange man with widened panic-stricken eyes, unsure of what’s happening. Why did he stop the elevator?

There’s no alarm. The elevator is quiet, and I wonder why there’s no sound. Why the small space is abruptly filled with an ear-piercing silence. Aren’t elevators supposed to have alarms?

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