Rebirth
Myla J. Harmon
Cars honk angrily at each other as a man yells for a taxi for the fifth time, getting ignored yet again. Fast flowing river rapids of people walk like one big hive mind on every sidewalk, minds set solely on their destinations. Pigeons take the role of tripping hazards, walking in zigzag lines that are impossible to predict, and someone drunkenly plays guitar somewhere in the distance. The sun is hiding, somehow being outshined by dark clouds and off-and-on rain; the kind of rain where you find yourself wondering the whole time whether or not it’s appropriate to be using an umbrella.
Nora stands still in front of an old antique shop, Mrs. June’s Treasures, looking out of place within the crowd of frantic people all around her, scrambling to get lunch in their mere 30 minute breaks. Normally she would be doing the same, but she has gotten fixated on a dress within the display window of the shop. Its flowy silhouette is draped over the mannequin, purple threading and beading cascading down into the skirt in swirling lines. Nora feels as though she could get lost within the folds of fabric and the tide pools of beads. The layers of the skirt are almost transparent and so delicately placed that she imagines a sharp gust of wind could rip them.
It is exactly the kind of dress that she would have worn in her 20s.
She would have worn that dress with her long curly hair loose and wild, not caring if a strand is astray, letting the wind blow it every which way. She would have put on a bold lip to match the deep purple of the dress, and she would have let her tattoos dance freely on her arms and legs. She can see that version of herself laughing as she twirls around, the fabric of the dress moving as if it were an extension of her body, a mirror of her soul.
Her gaze moves from the dress to her reflection in the window. It is so vastly different than the woman she had just been imagining, and it startles her for a moment. Her now greying dark hair is knotted in a bun, each strand meticulously placed and slicked back. She wears a plain black blazer and pencil skirt - long enough to hide her tattoos - and no jewelry, not even her wedding ring, which she has been wearing less and less. Her skin is hard and pale, making her appear as a shell of who she once was, or who she is supposed to be now. She has wrinkles around her lips from keeping them pursed. She doesn’t know when things went wrong. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she had changed, how much she had let her light fade into a dull glow too dark to help anyone find their way.
She blinks away the tears beading in her eyes and continues walking to the Brew, the cafe where she goes daily for her lunch and afternoon coffee. Inside, she sees a group of college students in the corner. She studies them - maybe too closely and for a bit too long - as they tap on their keyboards and make the occasional joke, causing each other to flood into laughter. The pit in her stomach grows.
At the front of the line, Nora orders a 12 oz black coffee and a turkey-avocado wrap on whole grain bread. She does not add cream or sugar to her coffee, nor does she grab extra sauce for her wrap. She never quite grew out of her bad habits with food. She insists that it's fine.
The window table has always been her favorite, ever since she was a young girl going to this very same cafe with her father. Here, she can feel secluded and safe while also getting to people-watch both the people inside the cafe and those who are walking outside on the sidewalk. The sunlight shines through the lace curtains and creates a makeshift doily in front of her. She has the urge to take a picture with her phone, but realizes she’ll have no one to show it to; no one who would find it interesting, at least. She used to love photography.
Nora’s phone buzzes on the table in front of her, making her flinch. She looks around the cafe, embarrassed at her jumpiness. It’s her husband. She used to feel excitement at seeing his texts. She used to sit on the field of her university, watching him play soccer with his friends, laughing and cheering him on. When he would slip a note under the door of her dorm room, she would stamp it with lipstick kisses and return it to him the next day. He would hug her tightly in return, twirling her around before kissing her through both of their wide smiles. Now, she feels her stomach get hot and her heart drop, a mixture of dread and anxiety that can only form from years of an uncommunicative and unhealthy marriage.
He texts: ur bringing the girls to dance later? I have a thing.
She sighs and takes a long sip of her coffee, letting it burn her tongue. While shaking her head, she writes back: sure.
When she’s done with her coffee, she wraps up the second half of her wrap and heads back to her office, the same way she came. She feels nauseous, maybe from the wrap, maybe from the text, maybe from some other hidden reason. It could be a million different things. She walks down the sidewalk, making sure not to step on any of the cracks; a habit that she formed when she was seven and never stopped doing. Her bun is pulling on her temples and giving her a migraine, a result of her hair being so incredibly thick and heavy that it could make ten knit sweaters. She considers turning around and getting another coffee for the road, hoping the caffeine will somehow fix her headache, and ignoring that it has nothing to do with caffeine withdrawals. She decides not to. She has a meeting in 30 minutes anyways.
Something must be in the air today. She is filled with so much emotion that she could bottle it up and sell it to all of Seattle; except that she would never want anyone else to feel this way. How had she not noticed herself withering away, merely taking on the form of a sad business woman and wife with a husband who doesn’t care about her and with no creative energy left in her cracked soul? She digs her nails into the palm of her hand.
She finds herself, yet again, in front of the antique shop window. No one has yet bought the dress, and it stands there still, perfectly graceful. She feels her heartbeat speed up, longing for something that she doesn’t have, can’t have. And yet, it is entirely possible. She has control over her life, she can rewrite her narrative and rip herself out of this sad story. The beads of the dress sparkle in the little bit of sunlight that has come out through the clouds.
Nora reaches in her bag for her phone, her hand trembling; although she doesn’t know if it is from anxiety or excitement, and she doesn’t give a fuck. She texts her husband four very simple words. They might hurt him, he might get angry and yell at her, but she could not care less.
She sends: I want a divorce.
Relief, adrenaline, fear, and excitement flood her heart, and she feels like her old self for a moment. She puts her phone quickly on do-not-disturb, and walks into Mrs. June’s Treasures. Then, she buys the goddamn dress.