By Fran Piper
The photograph of the woman peeks from the drawer. She wears a pinstripe business suit and an expensive haircut. Theresa regards her reflection in the mirror; sun-dried hair grown wild and long, cheap sundress, worn flip-flops. Who would recognize her? Of course, that was always the point. But now she can't even remember how it felt to wear a suit.
She had imagined a solitary life in the desert. When she arrived, she found her new home in the middle of a trailer park. Trash floated in the gritty wind; old air conditioners droned and clattered. It was like a foreign country. But he would never think to look for her here, so she stayed.
A knock at the door. Sharona calls "Hi, honey! You home?"
Almost immediately people had begun to stop by with food and curiosity; solitude was impossible.
"Hi, Sharona. You want iced tea?"
The tea jar sits among the dirty dishes. It's not that she's lazy. She's found that around here there's just too much living to do. People watch soap operas and the shopping networks, drink and fight, make up and make love. There's no time for neatness.
"You look tired, sweetie," Sharona says. "How about a movie? Luanne can
Sharona shrugs. They both know it doesn't matter. The point is to drink
soda and eat popcorn, make eyes at the guys in the next row.
Theresa slams the drawer; the woman disappears.
"OK," she says. "Let's go."