Mad

CW: Themes of domestic abuse.

Dealing with a psychopath is exhausting. Dealing with Sam is downright unbearable.

Now, I sit, anything but relaxed, in the coffee shop we agreed on. Public enough to not be just the two of us, but we’re also not right in the middle of Times Square. A happy medium…well, a medium.

Maybe he won’t kill me.

Maybe he won’t kill me here.

At least, not today.

…Not for a lack of trying, anyway.

I got here early and tried to pick a seat that would allow for a quick escape, but wouldn’t look like I was trying to pick the best seat to start an escape route. No stone can go unturned with this guy, no thought unfinished. He’s beaten you to the punch no matter what you do, how much you plan, how late you stayed up thinking of how to deliver bad news.

Sipping on my iced mocha latte, I peek around the small cafe, the paper straw swirling around my tongue already disintegrating. What this place lacked in size it made up for in sound, as far as privacy goes. Chatter hummed in the air around me, and a mix of songs played from what I assume is one of the twenty-something, tattooed barista’s playlists. Coffee shop bops, or cozy songs to sip to or something like that, no doubt. I liked the music, though. It was relaxing. A girl could really prime her mind for an interaction with a serial killer to this music. Ahh.

As soon as the clock strikes ten, the bell to the front door rattles, loud and disruptive. Subtly, I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. It’ll be fine.

Sam himself straightens his own posture, smooths out the front of his white button-down shirt when he sees me, which is almost instantly. Either he got a new shirt in the seven hours since I’ve seen him, or he has really good laundry detergent. I knew I didn’t pick a nonchalant-enough place to sit. He clocked me far too quickly. He knows. He’s got to.

His face is smooth and a little shiny, like he just shaved this morning, perhaps only half an hour ago. He definitely wears new shoes to go with that crisp white shirt.

“Anna,” he acknowledges. Pulls out his chair, sits without making a sound.

“Sam,” I mimic his tone, unwavering my now immaculate posture. He angles his body toward me and stares directly into my eyes, unblinking and unnerving to no end. I feel like he’s already having a bad day, based off of how he entered and looked at me just now. Great.

He says nothing else, just looks at me expectantly, prompting me to continue. I hated when he did this; when he played people like a piano—which he did, expertly— and expected them to bend to his will and do what he wants, make the sound he desired when he simply plucked a key. On any other day, I would not hesitate to annoy him at his silent request, make him bristle. But today, I just can’t risk that kind of behavior. I have to stick to the facts and just spit it out. I take a long breath through my nose as I pretend to sip my drink. Surely he noticed I was pretending, but I don’t care. I set down my drink, trying not to make a sound as the cheap plastic cup touched down on the worn table. I fold my hands in front of me, looking up at him.

“She got away,” I say, flat and even and straight to the point. Immediately, his eyes narrow. It’s slight, and anyone else wouldn’t notice it. But I wasn’t anyone else. “The boat captain got drunk and dozed off. Which caused the door guy to be caught off guard. Meaning she got out just in time.” I rattle the facts off as if reading from a list, which I basically am. I memorized what to say this morning. “She got away,” I finish.

He considers this. But I know he’s masking, pretending. He already knows what he wants to say, what he wants to do. He draws a long, even breath through his nose. “She got away,” he repeats, still staring me down. He wants me to apologize, to give an excuse. It’s fruitless to do so, since he loves to renounce an excuse.

“She got away,” I say yet again, not breaking his stare.

Looking into those eyes, I see Sam from ten years ago, Sam from six months ago, Sam now. At his core, somewhere deep behind those eyes, he is the same guy I met in my brother’s dorm room all those years ago, the same guy who brought me home from the hospital that fated night, who taught me how to drive a car in the countryside and rubbed my shoulders before the bar exam. You got this, he’d always say. You got this, Anna.

But clouding up those green eyes is a screen of gray, like they’ve been diluted by smoke. It was like the moments after they turn the lights on at a concert, signaling everyone to get out of there and go home, the show’s over. The smoke lingers, the confetti settles into the cracks between fold-out seats, and dirty shoes sticky with beer tromp over dropped cans and forgotten wrist bands. When everyone is gone, it’s just an empty, semi-dark room where joy and explosions and music and laughter were just moments ago. I can see what’s behind that cloud, but it’s only a whisper, a shadow of who he used to be.

He nods his head once, twice, three times. He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. I used to love that sight more than anything, relish the moments when I was up close to his skin, brushing my lips across it in a gradually darkening room.

His eyes widen slightly, his shoulders rising in a shrug to meet his ears in a rare moment when the mania slips out. Matter-of-factly, he says, “She got away,” once more and promptly pushes his chair out. The old, creaky wood scraped on the plank flooring in a noise louder than the chit chat and strumming guitar around us. Like he was pushing down hard on the seat, frustrated. Holding back. His action disrupts the peace, and a few people turn their heads, but it’s only a moment before harmony returns. He never breaks eye contact with me.

“I’ll see you at home,” he states, monotoned. “I love you.”

And he’s gone, shoving through the wooden door. That bell sounds again, and I snap out of my stiff trance, shoulders finally sagging, letting out a deep breath.

“Love you too,” I mutter to the empty chair across from me.