the next morning.

The sun exploded through the small window and draped itself haphazardly across Delilah's spotless bedspread. Delilah wasn't usually a fan of haphazard, but she made an exception. It was Sunday after all.
Sunday. Her five fat fingers began to tremble slightly as she thought of a torn seal and the familiar red lettering inviting her back to a better life.
She had to get ready.
The day was still young as Delilah hopped gingerly out of bed and almost skipped to the bathroom. She straightened all her various toiletries before starting her morning routine. Her teeth sparkled to match her eyes as she scrubbed them gently with her professional-grade toothbrush five times. Her cheeks shone as she slowly lathered her face, and her long brown hair felt silky to the touch after 50 strokes of the boar bristle brush. And then she did something different. The drawer resting peacefully for so long under the sink creak slightly as Delilah pulled it open. The dusty drawer was sparsely populated with eyeliners, mascara, lipsticks, foundations. She pulled them all out, lined them neatly on the counter, and, for the first time since arriving at Washington Heights, Delilah Plunk tried.
Back in her room, Delilah opened the door of the closet. She was startled by a single moth as it fluttered right past her black, stiffened eyelashes. She fingered through the clothes hung on wire hangers, searching for the splash of color amidst the blacks, browns, navys, and grays. Finally, in the extremities of the small space, Delilah found what she was looking for. She pulled the deep red dress off the hanger and shook it slightly before pulling it over her head. Her five fat fingers negotiated the small buttons up the sides before smoothing out the full skirt that brushed against her knees. This dress that had been her mother's was the only article of clothing Delilah brought to Washington Heights that let on the fact that her fingers might not be the best indicator of her general figure.
After eying the vacant space on her vanity, Delilah made her way back the bathroom. In the mirror, she did not see the woman who sat at her window and watched pigeons and people go by in fives. She did not see the woman who toppled coffee displays in seedy grocery stores and ran. She did not see the woman she had become. She saw instead the woman she used to be. The woman who was privileged. The woman who was loved and loved silently. The woman who was worthy of opening the envelope that lay expectantly on her kitchen counter.
Delilah was ready.
Her long-unused heels clocked across the hardwood as she walked to the kitchen. She stopped in front of it, taking her time. But as she finally reached and held it in her five fat fingers, she knew something was not right.
Not here.
Delilah plucked her coat from the hook by the door and put the envelope in its pocket. She turned the doorknob five times, opened the door, and made for the elevator. She made her way across the dingy lobby carefully and pushed open the front door into the blazing sunlight of late morning, headed for the park.

But almost immediately she stopped. She peered curiously at the throng of people crowded around the park's tallest tree, the gray newspapers fluttering aimlessly, and the silent ambulance that threw its red light across the pavement. Fingering the corners of the letter in her pocket, Delilah crossed the street.
"...just a goddamn kid. Goddamnit. Just a goddamn fucking kid..."
A woman Delilah did not recognize as a resident Washington Heights sat on the park bench beside the ambulance, her back to the scene unfolding before Delilah, muttered softly to herself, dabbing at her eyes.
Oh no.
Delilah meekly pushed her way through the crowd of people, craning her neck to see what she knew she didn't want to see. She finally pushed her way through enough to see Dr. Evans kneeling at the head of a small, skeletal frame, looking at him without the urgency of a doctor trying to save another's life but with the solemnity of a woman who kneels helpless before death. Delilah's five fat fingers covered her mouth as she stared at the impossible contortions of the small boys feet which had stood just days ago on a stack of soggy newspapers. The pool of blood that circled the little boy's placid face like a halo made Delilah's stomach lurch, and she forced her way more violently out of the throng than she had come in, coughing and sputtering, needing fresh air.
She put her fingers to her cheek.
Dry.
Disgusted with herself, Delilah started walking.
She crossed the street without waiting for the light to change in her favor. She neared the door of Washington Heights and felt a decision pressing upon her chest greater than the one that presented itself in front of her eyes – go inside or keep walking.
Delilah walked.
She walked past the abandoned lot save the taxidermist's stand, feeling the unusually kind breeze brush against her bare knees. She walked past the decrepit warehouse, the austere bakery, the flower shop. And as she walked something changed. Her throat tickled as she felt the sunlight pouring over her and the little boy lying dead in the park. She listened to the clocking of her heels and watched them as, out of habit, they avoided the cracks in the pavement.
She hesitated slightly before slamming her left foot across an epic crack.
Then again and again and again, every step was greeted with another break in the dreary asphalt speckled with sun. Delilah brought her speed to a slow gallop as she continued down Baker Street, her upper lip curled genuinely above her sparkling teeth. She ran across the street again, seeking out any small cracks in the black tar she could find, settling for yellow painted lines to lay her feet haphazardly across. She crossed over onto Barton Street, her eager feet suddenly coming to an abrupt halt beside a set of familiar cement steps. She turned to face the large wooden doors and reached her hand into her pocket.
Here.
The sounds of the chorus booming from any and all crevices in the run down chapel gave Delilah the strength to lift the leaden envelope and hold it gently in her hands. She looked once more at the red ink, the unmistakable penmanship. Delilah was nearly unable to remain standing as her index finger carefully began breaking the seal with unrivaled precision.

Mr. and Mrs. Luke Josephs
Request the honor of your presence
At the marriage of their daughter
Sarah Ruth Josephs
To
Mr. Samson Paul
Sunday the fifth of Decem

At that moment the heavy doors to the chapel flew open, and Delilah's carefully primped hair blew backwards in the force of the countless voices bellowing from within. Unable to think, unable to feel, Delilah's feet slowly climbed the cement steps. Up the cement steps.
Up.
The beautiful black figures in the red robes stood swaying like the flowers in His garden. The moon teeth glowed just like before, and Delilah could not stop herself from walking down the aisle.
But He was not waiting at the altar. Only the massive preacher standing before his congregation awaited her, dripping sweat despite the season, completely overcome by the song echoing off the tall ceilings. Delilah's bare knees grew weaker with every step until she crumpled half way down the aisle. The old women with paper fans and young boys in suits that were too large did not even glance her way to say, "Crazy white girl." They only sang.

Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home

Delilah's lips trembled as she felt the plush carpet beneath her thighs. Her thoughts floated aimlessly, a silent accompaniment to the zealous voices of the red chorus. She thought of the dead boy in the park, the forgotten ice cream truck, the filthy grocery store, the suspicious butchery, the seedy bar, the elevator that smelled like piss, the singing from the stairwell, the dirt on her palms, the unexpected wedding invitation she clutched at her side.
She began to cough. But soon the coughs turned into smiles and the smiles turned into laughs and Delilah lay down in the aisle, laughing like a little girl. She held the elegant letter to her chest.
What am I doing here.
A few members of the congregation finally began to take notice of the well dressed white woman splayed across their chapel floor, but not one of them could appreciate the rarity of the words that creaked their way quietly through Delilah Plunk's smiling lips.

"S-swing low, sweet chariot
Coming f-for to c-carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home"

A fountain of butterflies burst forth from Delilah's open mouth as the tears streamed steadily down her face. She laughed loudly and quieted only when the song ended on a last, resounding, glorious note. Her cue passed, Delilah rose quietly, invitation in hand, and walked out of the door. Hundreds of eyes followed the beautiful woman in the beautiful dress, smiling through countless tears, humming softly to herself.
Delilah shut the heavy doors behind her.

Delilah replaced the invitation in the envelope. She licked the broken but unharmed flap and resealed it. The last salty tears fell onto the creamy paper as she looked at the letter one last time. Blinking slightly in the bright sunlight, Delilah held the envelope above her head. The breeze was too weak to even rustle her wrinkled dress, but as soon as she let it go the envelope danced in midair as though carried on the wings of invisible butterflies. Delilah watched it dance out of sight as she stood tall on the steps of the chapel. She turned to face the tall silhouette of Washington Heights flanked by sunlight, a defeated sentinel of a soundless, sunless sarcophagus. Humming softly to herself, Delilah Plunk descended the church steps and made her way to the only apartment building in Baltimore with the fifth room on the fifth floor available.

The next morning she was gone.

she began to cough.

Delilah lay in the garden. She felt the soil dirtying her wind-whispered white dress as she watched the stars exploding in the black sky. She reached her five fat fingers out beside her, eager for the feel of fresh earth on her palm. Instead she felt hair. Piles and piles and piles of hair. And something alive. Somethings. Somethings tickling up her forearm, between her toes, gliding soundlessly across her scalp. She looked down to find her body engulfed in tiny caterpillars, their millions of feet trespassing upon her freckled skin. She tried to scream but couldn't. She tried to move but couldn't. She could only lie beneath the vast sky, feeling the caterpillars overtake her ribcage, her chest, her throat –
One by one they began to slither into her helpless, gaping mouth. Her breaths quickened and then died away as hundreds of caterpillars inched down her dry esophagus. Delilah felt them congregate around her vocal chords, spinning miles of cold, lifeless silk string, wrapping it again and again and again and again. A soundless sarcophagus.

Delilah awoke coughing and sputtering. She stumbled to the bathroom almost carelessly as she tried to breathe normally. She leaned her head into the immaculate sink and shut her eyes to avoid watching her saliva splay itself across the porcelain. Her hacking finally subsided as her knees gave way and she collapsed to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and lay still. Her eyes fluttered sleepily as she found surprising comfort in the sound, her own sound, as it ricocheted off the tile and held her in an invisible cocoon.

Her head banged the tile as Delilah violently started from the floor. No telling how many cracks she had just so haphazardly splayed herself across. As she scanned her body for tell-tale imprints, her eyes fell upon her hands.
Black with dirt.
Horrified, she jumped in the shower and let the icy water pierce its way through her pajamas. She took the bottle of sanitizing soap and squeezed five large globs into her hand. She rubbed until her fat fingers were raw. But they were still black.
Out, out.
She took her nails to the opposite palms until she nearly broke the skin. The water had exhausted to a light drizzle to match the atmosphere right outside her window. But her palms remained tainted with earth.
It's not...real. It's not real.
I need to get out.
Delilah, embarrassed in her own skin, got out of the shower, her clothes dripping icy pellets onto the unforgiving tile. She grabbed the closest towel and began drying herself. She tricked herself into believing that she didn't check the towel for signs of dirt.
But she did.

Delilah grabbed her elegant coat and, today, her red leather gloves. As she walked out of her apartment, she glanced back at the unopened letter on her kitchen counter. Tempted to just hold it once more, she resisted.
One more day.
Like a new mother reluctant to leave her child, Delilah turned her back on the envelope and stepped out into the hall.
The lobby was bustling for early afternoon. It was Saturday after all. Delilah stayed focused on the cracks in the hideous tile beneath her feet, so much so that she plowed into a woman from the ninth floor. She was about Delilah's age, and when Delilah looked up apologetically, she, for once, got the feeling that the woman understood. Understood why she was not looking before, understood why she would not explain herself now. For Delilah, such an encounter was rare and comforting.
The weather reminded Delilah of her uncomfortable situation. The drizzle had become so commonplace that the children continued playing basketball at the park as though it was sunny and 75. Delilah walked around the court, admiring the long, slender, black fingers of the four players as they bounded up and down the asphalt. She longed for one more player to join the game.
As she strolled aimlessly, Delilah begged the neighborhood surrounding her building to provide her with some distraction. Something was changing. She tired of counting the number of cracks careless pedestrians tread upon. She tired of counting pigeons in intervals of fives. Delilah could no longer find peace and contentment within the confines of her own mind.
She began to cough.
When even her well made coat could not deter the rain enough to make it remotely bearable, Delilah began her short trek back home. She kept her eyes on the ground until she neared the building. An unfamiliar sound drifted stealthily towards her. She raised her head and tilted her ear to the wind, trying to identify the soft tinkling. Something was taking her back to Annapolis. Summer in suburbia. Barefoot children running down the road, dodging sprinklers, wrinkled bills in their hands.
It can't be.
Delilah began to think she was imagining things again when a decrepit ice cream truck rounded the corner. The corners of her mouth had just begun to twitch slightly when two strong hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her backwards. Struck motionless from fear and outrage, she nearly choked on both as the half full wine glass shattered right in front of her. She hopped gingerly backwards to avoid to blood red liquid slithering along the pavement. Delilah looked up just in time to see a slender white hand drop a cigarette butt and slide nonchalantly back through the window. The butt sizzled and coughed in the pool of wine and began to deteriorate. Grateful to her savior, Delilah turned back to thank him as best she could, but the tall black man was already a good twenty paces in front of her.
Delilah entered her building as the ice cream bells faded out of earshot, and she thought of the beautiful future that lay right below an envelope flap – a future without falling goblets or the mournful song of a forgotten ice cream truck.

unopened.

and over and tried to find you then tried to move on then tried to forget but i can't. please delilah come home i don't know what more i can say. i miss you on the swing, in the garden, watching the butterflies. i will give you anything everything just come back please. i'm not angry, i don't care why you left. but i can't wait anymore and

The familiar red ink ran slightly as it mixed with Delilah's fresh tears. Her hands shook as she read His words. She traced the rushed pen strokes with her index finger and felt His own shaking hands as He scribbled the letter on the scrap paper. She smiled as she took the back of her hand to her cheekbone and tried to remember where her suitcase was

whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.

Delilah blinked her dry eyes furiously as she awoke to blaring sirens coming from her window. She raised her imprinted cheek from the plush red pillow of her couch and looked down at the unopened envelope wrapped in her five fat fingers. Body stiff from an unexpected sleep, she pulled herself over the edge of the couch to look out the window. The day had been exceedingly miserable for the season, and bits of ice mingled with the tiny wet droplets on her window sill. A black van scurried beneath her as the sirens began to die away, and Delilah remembered where she was.
The letter.
It had been days since she recovered it from her tiny metal cubby. She had attempted to open it 47 times but couldn't go through with it. She tried to keep her body occupied with the usual menial tasks she could complete around Washington Heights, but Delilah's mind was focused on the small, unopened envelope resting on the kitchen counter, dozing on the coffee table, waiting on her bed. But every time she found herself ready to dig her plump finger beneath the envelope flap and shred the silencing seal, she began imagining what she wished it said. She could not bear to be disappointed.
So she never opened it.
Today had been no different. Delilah eyed the letter in the quickly fading suffocated sunlight for what felt like the millionth time. The corners were beginning to fold and brown slightly. The edges were becoming discolored from the oils of her fat fingers. The red of the ink, however, remained vibrant and His handwriting unmistakable. She was tempted to put the envelope up to window to get a clue as to its contents, but she could not even manage that.
Instead she looked out of her small window without any obstruction but the bleak, polluted atmosphere of Washington Heights. She watched the people busying themselves below, playing her familiar game. She watched the peculiar foreign man from her building walk off towards Barton street before changing direction and coming back the other way – 24 cracks. A younger girl with more years on her face that on her driver's license held on to her hat as she made her way to the Diner Royale – 8 cracks. The beautiful basement tenant did not let the threat of sleet faze her as she walked, grocery bags in hand, back home – 5 cracks. Perfect.
Like a dandelion sprouting from the crack in the sidewalk, life managed to survive in this hopeless offshoot of greater Baltimore. Moving, breathing life.
Marginally inspired, Delilah made a decision.

Sunday.

sunday mail.

Delilah awoke slowly. Sundays demanded a change in pace, even though, without a job or schedule of any kind, Sunday was really no different from any other day. But there was just something.
Delilah sat cross-legged in her bed and looked out the small window. Her bleak world was, as usual, suffocated by blanketed gray clouds. She counted the pigeons as they flew by. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five.
Satisfied, she looked around her small, well-decorated bedroom. Across from her her majestic vanity loomed, a seemingly worthy ruler of its domain. However, on closer inspection, the dresser felt dismembered, maimed. Delilah recalled the hopeless afternoon in January soon after she had arrived in Washington Heights, prying the mirror off with various kitchen utensils and basic tools. The day itself was enough to face first thing in the morning, she'd thought. She'd put the mirror out on the street that night.
The next morning, it was gone.
Delilah's eyes, slowly adjusting to the Sunday, fell upon the heaping pile of dirty laundry by the closet door. The day began to take shape.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Delilah turned her bedside lamp on and off, on and off. The red lampshade cast an awkwardly warm light on the whole room. With most of her clothes in a formidable mound on the floor, Delilah's dresser drawers seemed eerily deserted. With few options, she dressed herself, taking her time. The quiet apartment and quiet streets demanded nothing of her. Especially not on Sunday.
Draped in cottons, polyesters, wool blends, and denims, Delilah left her room, carefully avoiding the cracks in her beautiful floors. In the bathroom she brushed her teeth five times. With so many years of careful hygiene, her smile had the potential to be radiant, but the necessary mechanisms for such an act had long ago grown rusty and immobile.
On her way out the doors of Washington Heights, Delilah made her traditional Sunday stop at the mail room. She'd gotten her week's mail on Sunday since she moved to this building. Delilah's thinking behind the unusual timing of her trip rested in the fact that her timing was indeed unusual, and she was less likely to run into one of her neighbors. She found the small, square, metal cubby labeled 505 and inserted her small, tarnished gold key. She removed the small stack of letters before shutting the tiny door with a metallic plink. Then bag of laundry and collection of envelopes in hand, Delilah stepped onto the streets of her inhospitable neighborhood.
Before her mind became completely focused on her first piece of mail, she spotted the boy at the bus stop, selling papers. This Sunday he stood on the stack so that the pages would not rustle and blow away with the sporadic gusts. She felt so sorry for him. Some days she crossed the road and bought a paper. But not today.
She slowly walked the straight path to the laundromat against the wind. The drawstrings of her dirty laundry bag digging into the crook of her bent arm, Delilah examined the first letter in her stack. It was from the DMV.

Dear Miss Plunk,
We regret to inform you that your request to change the date of birth that appears on your license from January 24 to May 5 has been denied. We at the Department of Motor Vehicles are not at liberty to

Disappointed, Delilah shoved the letter back into the prepaid envelope and moved it to the back of the stack. Next came a post card from her brother. The first in nearly a month. She admired the beautiful turquoise of the Norwegian fjords, the daffodil sunset, the clean air before flipping the card over. Delilah managed a slight smile as she struggled to decode the message hidden in her brother's abysmal penmanship.
After her unexpected lesson in modern hieroglyphics, she eyed the third envelope as she arrived at the laundromat. Something was familiar about the way her name was written. Something comforting. But before she could make out the return address, a violent gust of wind tussled her hair, slammed into her chest like a sack of bricks, and sent the letter flying out of her fat fingers. Dropping her bag of laundry at the door of the laundromat, Delilah chased the letter as it danced across an empty Baker street and made its way for Barton. Still avoiding the cracks in the pavement, Delilah looked like a light-footed child chasing a butterfly.
The graceful envelope finally came to rest. Delilah quickened her pace slightly, worried the wind might pick up again and send the mysterious letter flying once more. Only as she bent her knees to retrieve the mischievous parcel did Delilah notice where she was. The sheer power of the many voices threatened to shatter the beautiful, tall stained glass windows that flanked the side of the otherwise bleak gray chapel. With no better reason than forceful curiosity, Delilah, letter in hand, climbed the wide cement steps to the large wooden doors. Her five plump fingers wrapped themselves around the brass handle and pulled.
Even with the door barely cracked, just enough to see through, the massive chorus accosted Delilah's senses with waves and waves of glorious sound. Their red robes glowed against the black of their skins, the ecstasy of their craft written upon their faces – eyes closed, heads tilted, white teeth glistening like the moon. All of them swaying on the bleachers in unison reminded Delilah of the summer breeze whispering softly to the soft flowers of the garden, His gar–
The door slammed shut as Delilah's attention flew back to the forgotten envelope in her hands. Her mind racing, fat fingers quivering slightly, she eyed the return address.

Oh my God.

he.

Delilah's five fat fingers clutched the edge of the immaculate bathroom sink. With the door open, she could hear the rain pelting the window as if it wanted to shatter the glass and take the place of the tears that would not fall, that had not fallen. Her head hung helplessly, hopelessly towards her chest. Her long brown hair barely grazed the snowy porcelain as she tried to avoid choking on the unforgiving smell of Clorox. Her knees were shaking.
It had been so long.

The porch swing creaked, harmonizing with the cicadas hidden in the small garden. His garden. His lips brushed her ear as He sang softly, His hands gently plucking the guitar. His guitar. Her dress shivered in the nighttime breeze. The stars danced.
His hands stopped. The three words. His words. Then no pen. No paper. The three words. Her words. From her lips. They met midair.
The stars exploded.
She ran her fingers through His hair. The kitchen scissors steadied despite her shaking hands. Her tears mingled with the homeless locks as they fell into the dark garden. His garden. She cut His hair.
The next morning she was gone.

Delilah raised her head and found her dry eyes staring back at her. Dry since then. Two years dry.
I am free.
Free from what?
I am free.
He loved you.
I am free.
Who do you have now? The ex-Vegas performer? That creepy girl with the stand? The crack whores and gangsters and hobos and con artists? The murderers and thieves and motherless children?
I am free.
The rain continued to pelt the dark windows. The florescent light above the mirror flickered. The rest of the apartment was dark.
Delilah walked carefully to the shower. She pushed the red shower curtain aside, stepped in and out of the bathtub five times, and then turned the water on. The cold water slid down her spine like winter rain. She lathered her long, brown hair five times. Her fat fingers wrinkled like linen. She got out.
Forgetting her nightly routine, Delilah went shivering in the dark to her small bedroom. Hair dripping like a faucet, she slipped into crisp pajamas and sank into the expensive mattress. She fluffed her pillow five times before dampening it with her sopping head.
She lay awake with her dry eyes open. Her mind wandered to Sunday school in Annapolis.
He had been there.
God grant me the seren–
Enough.

the fumes.

The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.

505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.

five oh five.

One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Delilah Plunk's five fat fingers gently clenched the fifth orange juice carton back. The cold air from Manny's refrigerator encircled her slouched frame before falling in broken tendrils at her feet. She laid the Tropicana at the bottom of her rusting silver cart next to the transparent bag of five apples. Red. She gripped the handle of the cart gingerly and went on shopping, watching her feet to avoid the cracks in the dirty tile. These tiles were small – her gait was a clumsy square dance.
The coffee tins were on display, a pyramid of stunted growth and yellow teeth. Displays were always more difficult than the shelved goods – no distinct starting point. Delilah stood with her legs slightly farther apart than was natural and pondered. She chose the tip of the pyramid and worked her way down. One. Two. Three. Four.
She reached for the fifth tin down – not carefully enough. It slid out of her fingers and toppled the rest of the display like metallic bowling pins. Delilah's hands flew to her ears to muffle the cacophony of cheap metal on dirty tile. As ringing gradually faded, she welcomed the sleazy R&B that Manny's always played over the PA system. Delilah's face grew hot. She squatted and began gathering the fallen tins.
The cashier walked over. Her steps were not as careful. Sixteen cracks, Delilah counted. The young woman looked down at Delilah with her hands on her hips, annoyed and smacking her blue chewing gum. Looking up, still squatting, Delilah felt like a lap dog about to be punished. She attempted to apologize, but the words, as always, lodged in her throat, freeing themselves only in painful, repetitive spurts. Her blush deepened, and she quickly stood up and walked away, but not fast enough to miss the cashier mutter, "Bitch" under her breath as she began rebuilding the pyramid alone.
Delilah went without coffee.

The walk back to Washington Heights was short. Five plastic grocery bags hung sorrowfully from her hands as the threat of winter whipped down the gray street. Delilah's coat was nice, a gift from her parents (as everything was), but no coat could repel the oppressive chill that Delilah always felt on the B-block – B for Bucher, Baker, Barton, and broken. The place was a crap shoot, she knew. She could've lived anywhere she wanted, her parents said. Anywhere. But she chose here.
She stopped in front of her building, Washington Heights. The one apartment building in all of Baltimore with the fifth room on the fifth floor available. Go figure. She turned her key and jiggled the door knob five times before stepping inside, thinking,
I hate the grocery store.