Brooches aren’t for everyone

A quiet clink, a heartbeat’s pause, the soft clank of gravity and a round settling. It’s there on the bus floor, just to the left. The shine of something that should never be here.

It’s the brooch. Do people even still wear those anymore? You haven’t seen one in the fashion wild in decades. They’re things that just clatter in forgotten drawers now. But this brooch…you KNOW this one. It’s the type of ugly that’s almost endearing. A chubby silver bee, fat wings studded with tiny purple stones, bits of glass really.

But why is it here? You know where it should be; stuffed in the back of the top dresser drawer, behind that scarf you’ll probably never wear.

Did you sleepwalk (day walk?) pin it to your new shirt and wear it to the job interview? Maybe you’ll casually mention beekeeping as a hobby if the job comes through. (Please God, let the job come through.) That’s reasonable, right?

“Sorry about that.” The gruff voice of the hand in front of your face says. “It’d be a shame to lose it. It was my grandmothers.”

His grandmothers..? A fake, silver brooch bought at Kohls in the 2000s is a family heirloom. A quiet switch flips on, somewhere inside a red light flashes.

Something is wrong here. Is it his face? His eyes? You can’t be sure but his smile is a pretty that cramps your stomach.

“No problem” you say; your own smile a stranger to your eyes. The brightness burns a little, as you hand your little bee to him like it’s priceless.

And maybe it is; because you are suddenly all instincts and watchful eyes. Your head in the clouds sitting up on earth, all subroutines united in one drive, one question. Where exactly have you seen his face before?

You have two stops to figure this out. Emotions, stomach cramps, they have no place in this new world. Box them up in glass and hold them deep. Tiny you is still there of course, and oh so frightened, but out here, it is clear and calm. Instinct is the new air and logic rules as gravity.

Chances this guy in his twenties has an identical brooch as the one you bought twenty years ago; slim. The chances that his grandmother would ever pass on to him a cheap kohls brooch..zero.

Ok, so he’s a bad guy. We’ve established that he has been into the apartment, gone through our things and picked something that would terrify us but appear benign to anyone who could possible help us. (We? Us? There’s more than just you here. Instincts and drive have entered the chat and we all want to live.)

And just like that, the three of you know what to do. The thing about the next stop is that it is so close to yours. You’ve often wondered why there’s even two stops at all. But this one is always packed with people getting off. The main shopping hub is here after all.

You wait, sitting with fear. It’s an emotion. and it can get in the box with tiny you if it doesn’t behave itself. People get off, patience, wait for your ride. There it is..a little old woman with her shopping bag and directly behind her a tired wall of a construction worker. Wait until it’s definitely rude and you squeeze between them. Step off the bus and dart to the left as they all go right. Run! A block, a corner then two more, cut through a parking lot and there it is, home. But not for you, maybe not again. (Will you ever feel safe there?)

Into the cafe across the street. Might as well order a sandwich, life is unexpectedly short and who knows? Wait some more but not longer than it takes for them to add avocado and then there he is!

Tall with a stupid haircut. He’ll regret that in 20 years. He doesn’t have the ears for it. He’s looking at your apartment and waiting, trying to go unnoticed. And now you know where you’ve seen his face before. He’s the guy waiting for an Uber from Tuesday, the FedEx guy from Thursday, Jogging guy from you don’t know how many mornings. How have you missed this?

The devil really is in the details. But one thing that comes from living long enough is patience when it really matters. It comes back to you like water from a deep well. So you settle in and let it flow. You grew up staring out of windows on long drives, you can out wait this guy.

It takes the sandwich, a bag of chips eaten ever so slowly and a cookie but eventually you see him cracking. He starts shifting, checking his phone. Is he texting? He looks up at your apartment, both ways down the street, waits a beat more then starts walking.

It’s the simplest thing; you follow. Now that you’re no longer the bunny but something with teeth, instinct steps back. Something new and much sharper slides in. Who is he? Where is he from? Curiosity is too mild a name for what you are feeling. You want to know everything. If he had a middle school bully, you want to meet them. A childhood trauma? You’d like pictures.

He walks 6 blocks, 4 metro stops and another block and a half before we all get where we’re going. It’s an average building, shades of brown and grey. A little more run down than yours but not by much. He goes in and doesn’t come out. You wait until long after midnight to make sure. A woman hiding in a shadow of an alley, not moving.

A cheap hotel for a few hours and you’re back by his building eating a breakfast sandwich by 5. By 6 you walk in behind a tired runner listening to a podcast on full blast. A laundry room isn’t hard to find in the basement. Chair and newspaper borrowed, you’re lurking in plain site in the lobby when He walks out at 7:15. Choices…. Follow him and see where he goes? Perhaps find out what forces set him on your path. But that thing with teeth…it has a sense of the ironic. You saw what floor he came from. Let’s go find where he sleeps safely.

Up you go. It’s surprisingly easy to figure out where he lives. Listen at some doors, hear activity, it’s not the one. One sharp knock on the quiet doors, hear someone call out, not that one either. Move on quickly, but who really checks just one knock?

Finally, number 11 you’re the one. But how to get in? You’re no lock pick. All this way and didn’t think about the lock. This is a CHOICE in all caps. The glass box deep inside rattles. Tiny you might have big feelings about this. It’s hard to hear her all the way down there. Up till now it’s all been something that could be explained away. It could be a strange misadventure, a coincidence, something silly really, it could have happened to anyone.

The pause is significant but your sharp thing doesn’t believe in mercy when frightened. And it doesn’t care to be overlooked. He should have known that even little things have teeth.

This building doesn’t have the strongest locks and you’re a force when you get motivated. If it’s good enough for the cops on tv then it’s good enough for you. A couple of kicks and you’re in.

It’s all so average twenty something guy in there. There’s protein powder and weights on the floor. Has he ever vacuumed? It smells like feet and his name is Mark on his phone bill. 20 minutes and you’ve found what you’re looking for.

Hours later, as you ride the afternoon bus that you’ve taken daily for years; you wonder if he’s had a stressful day looking for you. You’ve spent money you don’t have, buying this outfit and changing your hair. (“And for what?” Tiny you rattles way down deep in her glass house.)

He’s six seats ahead of you and as it gets close to your stop you make sure to move up. Timing really is everything in life. His 6th grade soccer trophy makes a nice clunk and roll as it falls off his seat.

Your sharp thing smiles like a beauty queen, bright and merciless. He looks like a fish when he’s surprised. “So sorry about that, my grand dad won this you know.” You say.

There’s fear in his eyes now. The sick surprise of having your home invaded will do that. You wonder if he has his own glass box with scared tiny him. What switches are flipping on for him? What will happen now? Sharp thing hasn’t thought past this. But you find that there is no way back, no polite just kidding, so sorry that would lead everyone back to well lit social norms. There is only forward. Sharp thing against sharp thing, if he has one.

Then quietly, over the pounding in your ears, you hear it. A lone person clapping. It might have been going on for a while now.

“Congratulations, you’ve got the job.”