47.2 - Spring 2018

Page 91

pouring through the un-screened windows. The hour is high noon. The darkness of the day makes it seem later. I shake the rain off my umbrella, my coat, and scuff my boots against the doormat, then walk across the cream and orange patterned floor, past the black ceramic cat—head cocked to the side, yellow eyes following me, sidelong. I perch along the edge of this: minute, hour, brown crushed-velvet couch. Above me, the roof is silver aluminum; around me, the walls are red brick, peppered with framed prints: cave paintings, 70’s flowers in a vase, Star Trek’s Mr. Spock, phaser out, rendered in neon pastel-on-cardboard. To my right, a heavy wood reception counter sports dried flowers, a dark blue globe, a deer skull painted gold. I’m excited. I’m nervous as fuck. I’m here alone, by design. Last night, my boyfriend B left a card on my doorstep—a note of encouragement, a promise to buy me a celebratory drink afterwards. I appreciated the gesture, but found it unnecessary—grasping, even. I wasn’t having second thoughts. Hadn’t been since August, back when my California license plates expired and A, my ex, had called to explain how he’d failed to forward my registration forms in time to legally renew without excessive fees, back when I’d found myself at the Latah County DMV—a single room with clean gray carpet and two sweet old ladies working the desk and only one person ahead of me in line, a place unrecognizable as a DMV after Downtown Los Angeles, after the massive gray cement compound with its numbered service stalls, endless lines, cheerless staff, terrifying parking lot. I’d found myself SPRING 2018


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