Page 112 of Their Arrangement

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A jar of olives.

Half a lemon.

Milk that expired a week ago.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.Okay?—”

Get a job. Faster.

Can’t. I have one.

Sell something. Anything.

I havenothing.

I opened the closet. Pulled out old dresses. Cheap, pilled fabric. A coat from a thrift store that still smelled like someone else’s cigarette smoke.

“Fuck.”

I dropped to my knees.

Started sobbing—short, choked sounds that didn’t go anywhere.

My arms wrapped around my stomach.

My ribs hurt.

My head pounded.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered to no one. “I can’t go back to him. Ican’t…”

My throat closed.

The panic came fast.

Hot. Crippling.

I pressed my face to the carpet.

Screamed into it.

My voice broke halfway through.

When I finally sat back up, eyes burning, body trembling, I reached for my laptop.

Didn’t think.

Just opened the browser.

I typed in one word.

Escort.

My eyes flicked to the closet.

The silk blouse from yesterday still hung from the door.

Next to it: the black skirt. The heels. The lace.

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