I’ve known about this day for a year. And then I saw the Facebook post: wedding rehearsal tonight.

I’m immediately reminded of that Sunday afternoon, lying on beds at The Mattress Store. I asked him which one he liked. He responded, it’s your bed. I pushed back. “I want to get something you like too.” He didn’t budge.

That should have been a clue that he wasn’t choosing me and I should have moved on. But I didn’t. Instead, I tried harder.

I colored my wiry gray hairs blonde. I danced to music I didn’t know. I drank bitter and hoppy IPAs. I dressed up at Halloween even though I hated the holiday.

I eventually ended the relationship but I was left with questions.

What if I hadn’t backed out of going to Key West and Fantasy Fest that Halloween? And instead allowed myself to be seen with my flabby body on display.

What if I had been able to silence the non-stop questions that live in my head, those holding my inner most fear of not being chosen?

A friend reminded me yesterday that if I was still with him, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today. The one who bared her naked body in the Caribbean Sea and had her picture taken, her body still flabby. Or the woman who knew that booking a trip to Thailand would mean the end of a different relationship and I did it anyway.

Even as I actively choose myself, I still have to acknowledge the fear of being alone forever that creeps in if I allow it.

I went to my daughter’s graduation two weekends ago.

Her grandfather posted on FB about it. It was as if I wasn’t there. Walking down the hallway after I got back from seeing the kids the following weekend, I realized I didn’t need to be tagged in a FB post to show that I was a loving, involved mom.

It was pouring rain when we got to the pet park.

Oliver refused to go outside.

Shadow needs medication every day.

Jonathan watches her while I am gone. He sends videos—her purring on his lap, content. I see her dark black hair collecting on the pillow. When I get home, she is waiting by the front door. Right next to Oliver.

I live in a small studio.

Gray moving containers are stacked high against the walls. My daughter and her cousin visited for spring break. They slept in my bed. I slept on a blow-up mattress. The cat jumped on the desk and pranced by. Oliver waited for me to deflate it in the morning. After they left, I put the room back in order. Oliver didn’t notice. He had his chair back.

The dog barked.

Loudly. I stood on my tiptoes and looked out through the peep hole. A naked man was standing at the fire door. Two police officers offered him a blanket. He ran by them. I turned off the hall light and unpaused my show.  

The back wheel of the 150-pound motorcycle pressed against the door of the elevator.

Oliver and I squeezed past it and the woman wearing a beaded headdress. We got off at the 10^th floor. Walking down the hallway, I noticed the plaster on the carpet and the dark brown door covered in scratches. I didn’t look back. I already knew which apartment was hers.

Her name is Emma.

I know her name. I’m sure she doesn’t know mine. She knows Oliver’s name. I met her in the dog park just a few weeks after moving in. My feeble attempts at talking to her was always met with silence. Today was no different. We walked back down the 2^nd floor hallway. Oliver and I following behind. When we reached the elevator, she said, “goodbye Ollie.” I replied, “see ya later.” She walked on.

My biceps burned.

My shoulder ached—the bad one. A gallon of milk, two boxes of cereal, a three-pound bag of chicken. I was still figuring out how to shop for just one. I keep saying I’ll buy one of those wagons. It’s too late. I’m moving in two months.

His name is Allen.

It was early when I asked for my package. He sat looking at me until he pushed the chair back, smacked his lips, hefted his pants, and slowly walked toward the mail room. He came back with empty hands. I went back thirty minutes later and asked a different clerk for it. She found it. I smiled at her and left.

I stood on the scale, glaring at the numbers.

Later when I took Oliver out, the number from the scale in my head, instead of turning right towards the elevator, I go left. Out the fire door into the stairwell. Oliver looked back at me, went down a few steps, stopped, looked back. I caught up to him. We started down again. That was easy. Coming back inside, I walk towards the stairs. Ten floors down hadn’t been so bad. Let’s try ten up. 2^nd floor, I gulped air. 3^rd floor, my chest was pounding. 4^th floor, my calves burned. 5^th floor, I opened the fire door. When I got inside, I hid the scale.  

It was 6:00 pm and I was late.

Oliver pulled at the leash as we ran down the hallway. At the elevator, he did his dance. We raced to the park. He made it, squatting in the rock bed. But that’s when I realized I was the one doing the dance.

Smoke from bacon crept to the ceiling.

The smoke alarm blared. I scrambled—fan on, window open, step ladder out—reaching to turn it off. From somewhere below, a dog barked. Oliver barked back. Later, out in the hallway, I avoided eye contact with the guy from 1001.

Get out of the way!

Her arm blocked the elevator panel. I reached behind her for the button. Her eyes locked on her phone. Every single time. The dog and I got off at the dog park. The dog’s tail wagged. Next time, I’ll ask her to push the button for me.

On the Amtrak yesterday. a young woman came on.

Before she even sat down, she was scribbling and writing in a day planner. Her pen rapidly moved as she turned the pages. Flip, write, flip, scribble. The book cover too short for the spine.

She opened her computer. The calendar popped up. Colored blocks covered the week. In her internet browser, dozens of tabs displayed while the Wifi spinning wheel continued. She picked up her phone, swipe, swipe, refresh on the computer, swipe on the phone. She took a second computer out of her bag. 

I’d left my glasses behind.

My hair was hanging in my eyes. I got on the down elevator. Pushed 10. Ping. The door opened. Again. Again. I was already on 10. I needed floor 2.

I moved across the country a year ago.

Having not lived in an apartment since my 20’s, I was worried about Oliver, my nine-year-old mini golden doodle disturbing my neighbors. I picked out a 10^th floor apartment, all the way at the end of the hallway. I had lots of time to think.