Page 12 of Vasily the Hammer

Same with the rack of shoes that circles the baseboards. And the coats. Not a single one of the jackets look like they’ve seen a decade of winters with me.

But then, we’re in Los Angeles. Maybe they are all ancient but only get a single vacation to a ski resort every year.

So far, my existence has been Orlando and Los Angeles, but I have this feeling like it’s winter. I wonder if I proposed a ski trip to Vasily, would he take me? Would he look at me like I’ve lost my mind or be relieved I’ve remembered some passion of mine? If I put skis on my feet, would my body instinctively know what to do once I pushed myself off the top of a hill?

The thought is a balm as I select a set of pajamas and head into the bathroom. The towels all smell the same as my clothes,and the hair products are all from a matching line, displayed like I’m in a salon. The bottles all feel full. It gives me the same unsettling sensation as the closet, but then I breathe in the scent of the body wash, the citrus and the spice, the underlying sweetness, it smells right.

Finally.

This is my scent.

The relief brings tears to my eyes, just the same as Vasily’s touch did. I wash and condition my hair, wrap it up in a towel, then run myself a tub, dumping half the bottle of body wash in just so I can feel like me.

Finally.

The sun is pouring in when I wake up, and I finally have a chance to see what lies beyond the windows.

I can’t get over how high up we are. The cars below move around like toys on tracks, some complex machine built to demonstrate traffic patterns. Those are all people down there just living normal lives, somehow getting through the day without getting kidnapped or sustaining life-altering damage to their brains.

Lucky them.

Down on the sidewalk at the corner, I see four burgundy circles. Table umbrellas, like there’s a restaurant with outdoor seating there. I wonder what they serve and if Vasily and I ever go there. If we ever sit across from each other and enjoy the bustle of people and cars rushing by as we sip our coffees or eat our lunches. I wonder if he’d take me now.

The building across the street isn’t quite as tall, so I can see the roof. There are all the giant units that keep the building sustaining life, but there’s also a little garden. I wonder if we have one of those, too, if that’s where some of the fruit in that bowl came from.Avocados, I think, but I don’t know why. I just have this feeling I’m used to getting avocados off a tree instead of from a grocery store display.

I thought home would have a yard. After waking in the back of that windowless truck, then being transported through a parking deck into the hospital wing, then finally put in that dormitory with a single small window that didn’t open, I was looking forward to having outdoor space. I’ve felt caged since I woke up. I’m sure it’s as much my brain as everything else, but unfortunately, my brain is the one thing I can’t control.

I dress for the day in a sports bra that doesn’t do much for my admittedly flat but simultaneously saggy breasts— have I always hated these? Probably— a loose tank top that’s too long on my petite frame, and some pants that are better fitting but have definitely never been worn.

I hate this so much.

There’s a sleeved wrap I throw on, and that feels a bit more comfortable, but I’m just hating my skin. With a huff, I walk out of my room into the empty open space of the condo.

I’m hungry, but curiosity has its claws in me, so I swing the opposite way, looking in every cabinet and behind every door. This is my home. I’m not about to let myself feel like an intruder.

I find a guest room, an office that’s been converted into a fitness room— although everything in it is set for Vasily and not me— a half bath, and several closets. Everything is gray and boring, lacking any sort of personality.

When I find Vasily’s bedroom, it’s hardly any better. Lived-in in a way mine doesn’t feel, with a few personal effects and bathroom products in various states of use, at least, but it still feels like it was arranged by a designer, not Vasily.

But I lie on his bed and breathe, and it smells like him. I lie there for a long time, let myself be filled with his scent just as I was filled with my own last night, and it helps.

In his closet, his clothes are tidily organized, but there’s a tee-shirt with holes in its sleeves. There are sweatpants that have pilled lightly. There’s a jacket that doesn’t look like it would fit him, like it’s a hand-me-down from his father or an older brother, something sentimental. I find a black hoodie that’s soft from wear and threadbare in spots, and I throw it on over my pristine lululemon.

It gives me the strength I need to move to the kitchen to figure food out. So far, what I have known, all those basic motions I’ve just inherently gone through, have existed outside my conscious thought. But cooking? I don’t know if it’s something I simply know how to do and can go through the motions or if it’s something I’ll have to teach myself again. Hell, I don’t know if Icancook. We have a whole beautiful set of pots and pans, and I know their names.Wokandsaucepan, casseroleandsauté.But they look no more used than anything in my room. Their sides are spotless where the grease likes to sneak in around the handle, their bottoms are still shiny.

There’s fresh food in the fridge. Fruits and veggies, a couple nice blocks of cheese and some milk and juice, all the usuals, but there are also several take-out boxes and a stack of food in oven-safe containers, like a service delivered them prepared and ready to go in the oven. There are no heating instructions on them, and my belly rejects the take-out containers on principle, so I continuepoking around.

Hiding in the back of a cabinet, I find a rice cooker. It’s a nice one, but there’s a haze in the steam drain and watermarks on the brushed silver sides. It’s actually been used. This is progress. I find a bag of brown rice and read the instructions, but there’s nothing for a rice cooker. Logic tells me to just use the amount of water listed on the bag, but once I’ve rinsed off the rice, dumped it in, and topped it off with the recommended water, I frown and follow my instinct to add more. When it hits a height that feels right, I smile and seal it.

I think I know how to cook.

Or I’m about to make really wet rice.

I dig through all the cabinets, finding everything that looks used and laying it out. It’s not a lot, just an older sauce pan and frying pan, a couple of rough-edged silicone spatulas, a grooved cutting board, and a knife with a slightly bent tip, but it feels good. Back in the fridge, I open up a package that’s in deli wrap and find a steak inside. There’s no label on it, nothing to say what it is, what it cost, or where it came from. I’m impressed by the marbling, but I don’t know what that indicates.

I cut a paper-thin strip off of it, heat up the frying pan, and drop the strip in for just a moment, just until it starts to shrivel. Glancing around the condo nervously, feeling like there are eyes on me and I’m doing something wrong, I use a pair of chopsticks to pluck it out of the bottom of the pan and pop it into my mouth even though one side is still raw.

Holy heavens.

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