Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

by AJ Rico

  I easily navigated the human swarm to get near the doors, an imperative if you want to sit down when the train is crowded. Just as I reached the edge, the train blew through in a rush of windy exhaust, mussing my hair and blowing dust in my eyes.

  When the cars finally came to a halt, I smiled to see that I’d accurately predicted where the entrance would be. With a chime, the sliding doors opened and my grin fell. There'd be no seats today.

  People were crammed wall-to-wall in the dingy car. Every seat was taken and people crowded the aisles. I refused to stand for an indeterminate length—I still didn't know where I was going—so I muscled my way through the crowd and sat on the small, protruding ledge bordering both sides of the car.

  The good news: I was sitting. The bad news: I was now eye level with every ass and crotch in the crowded train, and none of them were worth seeing.

  Sighing, I made myself as comfortable as possible and did my best to tune out the people around me. I was no good like this. I didn't do well unfocused and adrift. I liked stability and structure, but I currently lacked both.

  As I reflected on how I ended up in this position, the all-too-familiar feeling of constriction began flowing over me. My skin was shrinking and my head began to throb as if there were weights attached to each strand of hair. My blood raced through my veins at super-speed, leaving me feeling weak and dizzy.

  Automatically, my brain clicked over to a new channel, diverting my attention to a young couple seated to my right behind a partition. Their bodies were turned slightly toward each other, and they were speaking in low, urgent tones. I was unable to hear what they were saying but it was clearly intense. At one point, the man reached up and wiped what I deduced to be tears from her face, and then he kissed his dampened finger. The woman threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  The love in those gestures was obvious, as was the affection in his gaze. I knew this not because I could remember ever experiencing those emotions myself but because in every romance movie I'd ever seen, these were the moments that were supposed to demonstrate love. Adam had looked at me like that when we began dating. All of this registered similar to absorbing the weather report on the morning news.

  Some distant portion of my brain noted that thoughts of Adam generated no pain. I felt this was information I should examine in conjunction with my cerebral analysis of the affection between the couple, that I should seek to understand this, to answer the question of “what did this mean for me?” The loss of my condo caused more anguish than the loss of the man whom I'd spent three years of my life with. Was I abnormal in some way that his absence barely registered any more than his presence? I'd witnessed people going through breakups that led to depression, anguish, and grief. Mine had always been more like flipping a switch. Who between us was the normal one?

  What was she doing over there? Again, my attention was drawn back to the couple. She's weeping harder now, there's a black box. Ah. Got it. He asked her to marry him. Shitty place for a proposal.

  And my mind was properly back to safer areas. The garbled and warped announcement for Mt. Vernon Square came through the P.A. system. As the doors opened, the crowd emptied in a swift tide of bodies. With nothing better to do, I followed the swarm out of the station and into a festival of some sort. There were food vendors lining the closed-off streets, and a cacophony of music filtered through the crowd.

  Now, this is exactly what I needed. Food and music. There's no better combination.

  * * *

  Several hours later, I stuffed the last bit of gyro into my mouth, enjoying the smoky spice of the goat meat mingled with the tang of the tzatziki sauce. A check of my watch informed me it was six o'clock and twilight was falling. I was sated and my feet hurt, it was definitely time to go—I couldn't think of that place as home—but it was definitely time to get off the street.

  Washington, D.C. was a much safer place than it had been in the 80s and 90s when it was America's Murder Capital, but a woman alone after dark was still at risk regardless of location.

  I'd ended up at the main stage of the festival watching a Latin Jazz artist perform as I'd sampled the offerings of local Korean, Japanese, and Greek restaurants from the surrounding vendors. The day had been well spent.

  I walked the few blocks from Freedom Plaza back to the subway. It was a quick walk, but it felt like nails were being driven through the soles of my feet. By the time I made it to the subway platform, I was cursing my footwear and seriously considering ducking into the CVS to pick up some flip flops. I'd left the house in heeled sandals and ended up at a walking festival. Big mistake. That I hadn't planned to be here meant nothing to my offended extremities.

  Thankfully, I found an empty bench. I rested there with a relieved sigh despite the tingle on the bottoms of my feet. Unlike before, I waited in near solitude. The earlier tidal wave of humanity had dissipated in slow drifts as the festival drew to a close. My reluctance to return to the Closet meant I'd waited too long to begin my return trip.

  With nothing to distract me, I noticed the enforced anonymity among my fellow travelers and me. No eye contact. Everyone maintained the requisite distance and minded their business. It occurred to me that were I to disappear, it was unlikely I would be missed. No one was waiting for me and I went unnoticed by those around me. I was a ghost in a city of wraiths.

  On the heels of that thought, the train arrived, and I put the chill bumps along my skin down to the coolness of the evening air inside the station. However, my feelings of disconnection only grew as we all took seats distant from one another.

  There were no whispered conversations, no ambient noise announcing the presence of the other individuals. Instead, the only sound was the clatter of the train on the electrified rails and the discordant tones of the recorded announcer at each stop.

  Abruptly, I wondered if this was what insanity was like. A consciousness locked on a single path, hurling through darkness unable to connect or to visualize the destination. Each stop a brief moment of clarity when the mind is at rest.

  When the train braked, I realized both that my stop was next and that I was alone in the car. I hurried over by the door, growing acutely claustrophobic amid the stale smell and exterior darkness of the subway.

  The doors weren't fully open before I rushed through, clipping my shoulder painfully. Heedless of both my shoulder and my feet, I pushed through the turnstile and raced up the escalator.

  Once at street level, I leaned against the enclosure surrounding the escalator and forced myself to take several deep breaths. The noise of the street encompassed me but provided no solace. Instead it only served to emphasize my solitude.

  "Hey, baby" a lightly accented voice called from my right. "You look like you could use some cheering up. Want to party?" This was from an obviously male but indistinguishable person in a tricked out Honda Accord occupied by two other male silhouettes.

  I bit back the "fuck off" that flew to my tongue. As tempted as I was to fling it at him, I'd learned when I was young how dangerous it was to insult men when rejecting them. The local papers had been full of stories about a young girl who was shot to death for rudely telling a man no thanks.

  Instead, I began walking in the opposite direction of where they were headed even though it also was the exact opposite direction of where I needed to go. Mentally cursing my stupidity for staying out after dark alone, I didn't notice the older white man coming up behind me until we both stopped at the corner to wait for the signal to change. The tang of unwashed body accosted me. He was entirely too close, and the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention.

  Instantly, I detoured to my left. As I did, I felt the brush of fingers across my ass. I didn't bother to check I was right, I stepped into the street and hailed a cab I could no longer afford.

  The cab driver was unhappy to only be taking me three blocks, but too bad. I needed to get to my apartment. I tipped him better than his attitude called for, just grateful to get inside with
no further issues. That is, until I climbed the interior steps and noticed the stocky man with a pugnacious face outside my neighbor's door. He was pounding on it and demanding entrance.

  He didn't notice me over the racket he was making, and I was grateful for that when, just as I closed the door, I noticed the handgun holstered on the waistband of his jeans. I threw the deadbolts and the chain, holding my breath until I heard the outer door creak then slam.

  I had to get out of here.

  2. Humpty Dumpty

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS still rattled. I tossed and turned all night jumping at every sound. It wasn't until I made it to my favorite table at Kona that I began to relax. How easy it is to take things for granted during the good times.

  I bought a large coffee and a bagel, prepared to make both last as long as possible. When they ran out, I would have about an hour before I had to move to the library.

  I was still staring out the window thirty minutes later.

  I was blocked, unmotivated and unable to get started. My anger imprisoned me, cementing my limbs in place.

  "Bloody hell," a familiar lilt broke through the low din. "Is it as bad as all that? You look wrecked."

  Turning, I absorbed his latest contradiction. Today, it was Rolling Stone Magazine and clothes that gave a vibe of Rat Pack meets casual Friday.

  "Tell me you have something tweed in your closet." I mustered a smile for Henry, waving him into the seat across from me.

  "I abhor tweed." He gave an exaggerated shudder as he made himself comfortable. "Even when I was teaching at University, I never donned a single article of tweed."

  Again, I smiled, but I didn't feel up to bantering. He tilted his head as he considered me for several long moments, saying nothing. As boyish and innocent as he appeared, it irked me.

  "What?" I could hear the belligerence in my tone, but I didn't apologize.

  "Well," he drew the word out, but lost none of his smile. "The only British money I have on me is a five pound note and I can't tell by looking if it's worth it."

  Despite myself, I laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It was one of those times where the laughter builds on itself because if you don't laugh, you'll cry. And, if you cry, you just might pull a Humpty Dumpty and be forever broken.

  At first, Henry waited me out, but when the laughter turned to weeping, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.

  "Come now. Dry your eyes and talk to old Henry."

  My instinct was to blow it off, but it was as if my tears had dissolved what little buffer I had left. A tsunami of acrimony and resentment was building inside me and, if I didn't let it out, I felt sure I would shatter.

  My fists clenched along with my jaw as I said, "Just remember, you asked for this."

  * * *

  I told Henry everything. I spared no detail, left no complaint unvoiced, no resentment unaired. By the time I finished there were no tears left, only a seething anger crawling along my skin. Adam had done this to me and it wasn't fair!

  Henry never interrupted. He sat quiet and intent while I drained myself. When the silence continued, I became uncomfortable and only force of will kept me from squirming in my seat.

  Unable to take it any longer, I said, "Don't bother with your British politeness. Just spit it out."

  He quirked an eyebrow at that, but shrugged. He took my hand, squeezed it, and said, "I understand you feel put out, but you need to get over yourself."

  His touch was so warm and gentle and felt so good that his words didn't immediately register. When they finally soaked in, I snatched my hand away and sputtered, "What?"

  Henry leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his knees. He looked like a benevolent parent ready to bestow pearls of wisdom on an errant child. Meanwhile, I was seething. "Were you even listening?"

  "Yes, my dear. I heard every word. And, I stand by what I said. While I grant that leaving you in a lurch was, in itself, poor form, it sounds as if you did your share of callous things." He shrugged, "Besides. You got it sorted. You have a place to live. In the end, no harm done."

  He sipped his coffee and said nothing more. Incredulity warred with indignation. His words spun in my mind like a broken record.

  "No harm done?" my voice grew shrill. "No harm done!" I all but shouted that time, attracting the attention of surrounding patrons. Dropping my voice, I hissed, "I'm living in a closet. There was a man with a gun outside my door! And you say 'no harm done'!"

  Henry didn't even blink as he said, "Yes, I am. You have a roof over your head, food to eat, and income coming in. As for the gun, this is America; there are more guns than people. There may be people with guns around us right now. Is your situation ideal? No, but it will improve given time and work on your part."

  He took my hand again as he continued.

  "It sounds to me as if you've been taking the easy route and now you have to put a little elbow grease into your life. I can't feel sorry for you if that's the worst challenge you have."

  I could feel my mouth hanging open. I wanted him on my side not lecturing me as if I were an ignorant child.

  I shoved my hand into my lap and leaned forward as if sheer proximity would make him see my point of view. "How can you say this to me?" I heard the plaintive note in my voice and cringed.

  "Because you need to hear it." He sighed. "Charlotte, we don't know each other well, and I've enjoyed speaking with you, but I don't lie to make anyone feel better. You spent three years with this man and yet your anger and loss are all related to your flat. You didn't mention feelings for your partner even once. That relationship needed to end and you might want to put your feelings aside and consider his complaints. There seems to be some truth there."

  I flushed so deep that sweat bloomed on my skin. This man saw through me in ways I didn't understand and didn't like. Immediately, I began packing my stuff.

  In my haste to get away, I was almost breathless as I said, "You know what? I don't have to listen to this." I snatched up my coffee and uneaten bagel preparing to storm out.

  Henry gripped my arm. I glared at him until he released me, his skin flushing. "Charlotte," he said, "I hope you'll get past feeling insulted and be open to what I've said. You have a unique opportunity to—"

  I cut him off with a jerk of my hand and left without a backward glance.

  Whatever.

  I fumed all the way to the library. Henry's words played in my mind on an endless loop, but this time, instead of my useless stammering, I won every argument. I flayed him mentally and left him crushed.

  If only I'd been so eloquent in reality.

  3. Getting the Exclamation Point

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, MY BUTT was sore from the library chairs and my back and neck felt deformed. I'd gotten next to no work done and had further depressed myself by looking at high-priced apartments online.

  I either needed more projects or I needed a job. Tears burned behind my eyes as I powered off my laptop and packed up to go. I ambled through the surrounding neighborhoods rather than go back to my place. I soaked in the familiar sounds and smells of street traffic, corner vendors, and urban humanity.

  Soon enough, I found myself across from my old building. I stared at the line of windows on the fifth floor only to recoil at the gauzy Roman shades adorning my former windows. Someone else was living in my condo.

  It was too much.

  Hot, scalding tears ran down my face unchecked. I wept in hard, wracking sobs that strangled my breath and made the muscles in my face ache. I have no idea how long I stood there lamenting my loss like a tribal woman of old whose warrior failed to return home.

  By the time I ran dry, I had snotted all over myself and was certain my makeup had dissolved. I fished in my tote bag for a tissue when I spotted Henry's handkerchief. I must have taken it when I packed up my gear.

  I used it now to mop up my face and try to put myself at least a little bit back to rights. No need to scare anyone on the subw
ay.

  For the first time, I noticed how soft the cloth was and how it had a faint citrus scent. Was that how Henry smelled or just his laundry detergent? The inhalation of his scent from such an obscure yet personal object felt both strange and intimate. I noticed his initials, H.B., embroidered in blue. I had no idea what his last name was. Shame, unexpected and unwanted, shot through me at that.

  It didn't last long.

  Thoughts of Henry recalled his unwelcome opinion of my situation and I packed them away with his handkerchief. He was wrong. I didn't want to hear it, not even in my memory.

  With leaden feet, I began to walk to the subway. It would be dark soon and I wanted nothing more than to sleep after that emotional display.

  I was so distracted I missed the creature blocking my path until its low growl erupted into a barrage of canine epithets. I jumped, losing my balance and wrenching an ankle.

  "Damn it!" I hollered as I knelt down and rubbed the offended ankle.

  "Oh, no! I am so sorry!" a high-pitched, feminine voice sounded to my left followed by the slam of a screen door. "She must have gotten out of the yard."

  A petite, Barbie doll of a woman scooped up the little Chihuahua-with-a-Napoleon-complex. She shushed the dog with croons of, "Bad Bebe. No treats for you."

  I rolled my eyes, way to reward the little rat. Standing, I tested my ankle and it held.

  Barbie crinkled her sculpted brows and asked, "Will you be okay? Do you want me to call you a cab?"

  The cab was tempting, but not in my budget. I pushed my hair out of my face and said, "No. I'm okay. Little Bebe is quite the guard dog."

  Barbie grinned in that proud parent way so many dog owners have. "She is. She thinks she's a big dog. But, I wouldn't trade it. She keeps me safe when my husband is traveling."

  With her words, an idea formed in my mind ... a dog. I would adopt a dog. But, not some tiny little purse dog. No, I'd get me a big dog that could do some real damage to anyone who tried to hurt me.