"Open your eyes, Mrs. - . You can open your eyes now." The man's voice is syrupy, ketchup-thick; it reminds her of her husband. She does not welcome it.
She pretends it's a game: she's playing hide-go-seek and she's IT. She wants to scream, "Dammit, I haven't finished counting yet! 100, 99, 98, 97..."
Her mind trails. The room's refrigerator-cold distracts her from her mission. She must not look. Her feet whine; she's not sure how long she's been standing in the same spot. Her heels speak to her, beg her to give up, to sit, lie down, anything that will give them a chance to breath. Someone nears her, reeking of gardenia, the bottled-kind. "Come on, honey." The stranger (she could hear the sound of the woman's pantyhose scraping at her thighs) takes her by the elbow, guides her into a chair. She recognizes the vinyl on her skinny bare legs, the skin sweating, then sticking like chewing gum to the fabric. She loses count; she imagines the strangers looking at each other, not being able to tell if she did it on accident or if they need to call someone more versed in people --like her. Don't they know what it feels like? Can't they tell?
The woman caresses her belly as if her baby were still inside. "82, 81, 80, 79, 76, 75, 78, 80, 81, 82..."
Hace 5 semanas