Every morning, wordlessly and routinely, Sandra ties my apron strings. She’s a good girl, with eyes big enough to take in the whole world. The men can tell and they speak to her gently, never holding her gaze for too long. No one wants to be the reason she stays here. One casualty will have to be enough. I want to warn her, to tell her that there will come a day when she will declare herself comfortably numb, fade into dimly-lit hotel rooms and desaturated colors. She will learn to paint herself up in crusted Maybelline and half a pack of Newports, and grow her hair out so long it kinks only at the ends. She will stay in this place with a name no one’s ever heard, and grow smaller. She will learn to hide between satin sheets, brown skin cradled awkwardly between the crimson, and watch dusk-lit novellas unfold from her balcony. She will learn to count her steps.

A whole life from the observant position, third person narrator, she will vaguely remember her former self. Hips made empty by time and distance, drooping eyelids, a growing need to be just a little bit blinder. The men will stare too long, and she will learn to wish her beauty would wash off like sweat.

It always rains here. Fogged up, cloudy, wind chill and the windows never dry. They say the carpet was beige before my feet ever hit it, but I say it’s been brown ever since. My hips keep getting wider but I still fit through the door. We still have cigarettes in our vending machine.

Twelve o’clock noon and it sounds like lunchtime. The men smile even as the tables fill and I can’t seem to get anywhere fast enough. They stare too long but their eyes are soft and I don’t mind like I used to. Precarious stacks of unmatched dinnerware, multi-colored toothpick frills, and little kids with chocolate milk moustaches line the edges of my days. This is home now.

The man with the red jacket always tips too much. I watch him take the money delicately out of his neatly-kept wallet and I never really feel like it’s mine. He has dark, curly hair and a rough face with soft features, and I’ve never seen him more than smile at anyone. Chicken salad on wheat, potato chips instead of fries, iced tea with one sugar. I’ve never asked his name.

You can see the shopping plaza out the main window: Cricket’s Hallmark, The A&P, Rite Aid, and a sleazy adult film store. I do my shopping one town over.

The days come easy, and my cigarettes still taste the same. My nails change colors as the weeks go by but not much else does. The drinks go down easy but they never come up that way. I’m always freezing; these ten bony fingers, worn raw by soap suds and dish water, grasping awkwardly at everything they hold. Sandra sees the dishtowel hanging limply from my hands and takes it from me gently, finishing drying the dishes by herself. I want to tell her that there will come a time when she will learn to dance with shadows, wishing for ways to become unbroken and finding only infomercials and leftovers. Thunderstorm on the other side of her window, she will end her days falling into an empty bed. Nostalgic and completely ungrounded, she will learn to ache for anything but sleep.