Page 57

At first glance, the room could belong to anyone. Dark green walls, wooden furniture, a chair beside a reading table. The bed is large enough for one person to sleep comfortably without suggesting anyone expects two.

I notice the glass on the nightstand. Full. I look at it for a moment before moving on.

I open the top drawer of the dresser and find underwear and socks arranged in rows. The next holds shirts. I take one out and check the label. My size.

I unfold it. It’s a dark green button-down I might have bought if I’d seen it first. I put it back exactly as I found it and open the next drawer.

Sweaters. Charcoal, black, navy, another green darker than the shirt. No logos. No patterns. I touch one. The wool is soft enough that I wouldn’t object to wearing it directly over a T-shirt. I would wear all of these.

I close the drawer.

The wardrobe contains trousers and several more shirts. I check three sizes before I stop. They’re all correct. The shoes underneath are close enough that I don’t bother trying them on.

Heather said she’d been watching me for almost a year. I stand with one hand resting on the wardrobe door and try to decide what information that actually gives me. She knows my size and how I dress.

I close the wardrobe carefully.

The bookshelf takes longer.

Some of the books are obvious choices for anyone who knows what I teach. Others aren’t. A collection I used at the reading series four months ago. Two novels I’ve mentioned in class this semester. An edition of The Odyssey I recognize but don’t own. Poetry. Essays.

A biography I picked up in a bookstore last year, read three pages of and returned to the shelf. I take that one out. The spine hasn’t been broken. There are no marks inside, no name on the first page, nothing tucked between the leaves. I return it to precisely the same place.

Almost a year contains too many ordinary days. Apparently, Heather found some of mine worth remembering.

The bathroom door is open.

I cross to it and turn on the light. Green towels. Toothbrush. Razor. Soap. Shampoo and conditioner lined up inside the shower as though I’ve been expected all week.

I pick up the shampoo. Sandalwood. No. I put it back with the label facing exactly the way it was.

The toothpaste is worse. I unscrew the cap and smell it. Cinnamon. I stare at the tube. Of all the things in this room, this is the first one that nearly makes me laugh. I hate cinnamon toothpaste.

I replace the cap and put it back.

It’s a small thing. Small things are where inaccurate readings reveal themselves.

I look around the bathroom again.

She knows what colors I wear. She knows what I read in public. She knows approximately what I would buy and exactly what size to buy it in. She doesn’t know what I keep beside my sink.

Almost a year. Watching from a distance.

I turn on the faucet and let it run cold. There’s a glass beside the sink. I leave it where it is, cup my hand beneath the water instead, and drink twice from my palm.

The water tastes like water. I drink again. Then return to the bedroom.

The reading chair is comfortable. I know because I sit in it long enough to test the angle and then stand again. There’s a small table within reach. No pen. No paper.

I check the drawer in the table. Empty. That isn’t an oversight. I close it.

The room is separating itself into categories. Things intended to please me. Things intended to contain me. Things Heather has interpreted correctly. Things she hasn’t.

I straighten the chair to the angle it held when I entered the room.

On the dresser there’s a small wooden box. I lift the lid. A comb, nail clippers, a few ordinary things someone might keep in a bathroom rather than a bedroom. No scissors. I close it.

My coat isn’t here. Neither is the sweater or shirt I wore last night. My bag is gone with them. My phone. My keys. My wallet. Everything that connects this room to my actual life is missing except the glasses on my face.