Observing people has always been one of my favorite things to do. When I was younger I used to spend hours on end watching the way people interacted around me. I would make up stories of who they were and what was happening in their life. I’d wonder if they were happy or hurt, whether they lived nearby or were just visiting. The possibilities were endless and my fascination never wavered.

I graduated from New York University with a Ph.D. in Social Psychology and then went on and allowed myself to be immersed in the wonders and woes of the human world. Opening up my own practice, my work became the other half of my heart. I learned everybody had a story, and no piece of information was insignificant. It was always the little details that ended up becoming the most vital. Nothing fulfilled my interests and curiosities like trying to piece together the lives of people I came in contact with. But that was a lifetime ago. Now I’m all about feigning interest. My jar of fucks to give is empty.

Standing behind the counter at work, I’m impatiently waiting for the last hour of my shift to be over; desperate to wash the day off me and curl into bed. The career change to retail wasn’t really a choice, but more of a necessity. I needed my family to loosen the noose around my neck, but I also needed a job that tired me physically, not mentally. Deep conversation. Feelings. Empathy. They’re a thing of my past.

The hours have passed by so slow. I covered for the manager and a normal five-hour shift turned into ten. Add in the beginning of winter and end of seasons sales, and I’m ready to call it a day. The cold has hit hard and fast, making people cranky and intolerable. Running to find cover from the rain or relief from the wind, the store has been busy all day, but for all the wrong reasons. As closing time creeps up, and the shop begins to empty out, I can’t help but notice the way a young woman sifts through all the folded sweaters set up in the middle of the store. She’s angrily looking for her size, as well as blatantly trying to ignore the man behind her. He’s on her heels. Every move she makes, he moves closer to her; trying to grab her attention. He's talking at her, hoping she'll show mercy and listen to whatever it is he has to say. Finally finding the sizes and colors she's been looking for, the young lady makes her way to the register and places the items on the counter. I pretend I haven’t noticed the tension between the two and put on my shop assistant mask. I would say it’s a fake smile, but it isn’t even the ghost of a smile. It’s a simple lift that my mouth does to ease the discomfort that my straight face often provides.

“Just these today?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she responds. Her head is buried in her half opened handbag; rummaging around all the unnecessary things women carry, looking for her wallet. I see the gentleman walking up behind her, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He stands behind her, closing her in with one arm and handing me his credit card with the other. I wait before taking it, wanting approval first instead of unknowingly adding to the tension.

“I got this babe,” he says to her.

She inhales loudly. “How many times have I asked you to not call me babe?” She lifts her head and stares directly at me. “The only reason I’m not arguing is because I don’t want to make this lady feel anymore uncomfortable.”

I break eye contact and start to ring up the items, the silence between them is palpable.

“That will be forty-six dollars, thank you.” I take the card from his suspended hand and process the transaction as fast as possible. I continue to remain unaffected because that's exactly what I am. I can see the pain in others, their happiness and whatever else they allow bystanders to see, but I've worked really hard not to feel. I’ve purposefully rid myself of empathy, it used to be something I was proud of, but now it’s like a loaded gun. One moment of feelings, a connection with someone else could lead to a meltdown of epic proportions. So, this is my deal with the devil; I’m the dead among the living.

The couple have made their way out the door and have decided the argument couldn’t wait till they were in the privacy of their own space. I walk behind them and flip the sign on the door to closed. My palms are pressed against the shop window, and my breath fogs up the cold glass. Winter is my favorite time of the year. I get to stay indoors for the most part, in bed and away from people. Under the pretense that it’s too cold to be outside, I usually sit in my apartment and let the past drag me into a black hole of painful memories. The holidays usually add to the torture, but if anything, I’m efficient when it comes to the art of suffering. I’m well aware I lead a sad existence, but it’s the only way I know how to be present. If the pain isn’t consistent, it means I might forget. And I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to do that.

Realizing I’ve been staring outside longer than I intended to, my focus shifts back to the couple. They’re still arguing in the middle of the sidewalk and people walk on by without casting a second glance in their direction. I guess all our lives are complicated enough that we become desensitized by others making a scene in public.

Walking toward the back of the store, I start the closing down process, refolding all the clothes, restocking the missing sizes, cleaning the countertops and making sure the shop made target sales for the day. Just as I’m about to grab my bag and switch off all the lights, I hear a knock on the front door. Like clockwork, Elliot is waiting for me outside. I put my finger in the air, signaling I’ll be another minute. Letting my eyes roam one last time over the shop, I’m satisfied I’ve left everything perfect for whoever it is that opens up tomorrow. Walking toward the door, my coat wrapped tightly around me, I prepare myself for the sudden temperature change. Punching in the alarm code, I quickly make my way outside to Elliot. He stands patiently waiting, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. I can see the apprehension in his eyes; unsure of which version of me he will get today.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I respond.

“How was your day?”  

“Long.”

This is about as detailed as our conversations get, we usually continue the walk in silence until we step inside the house and the exchange turns into what we’re going to eat for dinner. Elliot is James’ brother. When I met James, his family wasn’t in the picture. He chose to have little or no contact with them, and I remember how hard we fought about whether or not they should’ve been invited to our wedding. But in all the years there was never a mention of a brother.

The first time we met was a few days after James died. He came knocking on my door announcing who he was and that he was here to meet James. I found myself unable to be the one to tell him he had passed away, but as soon as he found out, he insisted he would stay around to help.  Before I knew it days became weeks and weeks become months, and I never had the energy to tell him to leave. Living with Elliot has become a well-choreographed dance of emotions. His one step forward, my two steps back. I tolerate and he endures. He has filled my days with routine, one-sided dialogue and a presence that is contradictingly comforting, yet somewhat invasive.

As time passed and the shock of James’ death wore off, he eventually explained the family connection and what took him so long to reach out. Their deadbeat dad had too many addictions to count, he was too busy chasing that ever illusive high. Seeking out drugs, sex, alcohol and gambling; their dad got two women pregnant and left them both to take care of the children on their own. James spoke about his life without a constant father figure, the effects on his mother and the struggle of their lives. Elliot’s childhood sounded unsurprisingly similar. He told me he’d hired a private investigator to find out information about his dad. While the search revealed their father was dead, the investigator came back with news on James and I. As he toyed with the decision to reach out, James and I were dealing with the biggest loss of our lives. When Elliot finally found the courage to reach out, he was met with the news his only sibling was dead. I don’t know how it affected him, but I know that his mask never slips. Elliot is the most selfless person I know, and my grief has always been his first priority.

As the short trek home comes to an end, I walk a little bit faster into the foyer, glad to finally be out of the cold. I push the up button, waiting for the elevator that will take us up to the apartment. No matter how many times we’ve stood here, side by side; this is always the most awkward part of our day. The walk occupies our minds and our bodies, because we’re usually concentrating on getting home in record time, but when we’re here next to one another; the silence between us is a reminder of the distance Elliot is trying desperately to close.

The ride up is quick and in no time, we’re standing outside the apartment door. Reaching for my keys, I let myself into the only place that feels safe. I walk away from Elliot and toward my room. “I’m just going to change into something more comfortable, then I’ll start on dinner,” I say over my shoulder, anxious to put some distance between us.

“No worries. I bought everything you asked for, it’s in the fridge for whenever you’re ready.”

Cooking is the only thing I do for Elliot. It sounds silly, but it’s the only way I know how to say thank you. It’s small and so insignificant, but it’s all I have to offer. Every time he tries to engage with me in a conversation, every time he tries to make me smile I give him nothing, but if I can cook for him; maybe he can see I’m not trying to be unappreciative and purposefully dramatic. I just don’t know how else to be. I’d forgotten how to be me.

Taking the chicken and vegetables out of the fridge, I prepare a new recipe for turmeric chicken and rice that I've been wanting to make. It only takes about forty-five minutes to whip it all together and the smell in the apartment is sure to have anyone salivating for a taste.

“This smells really good, Evie,” he says while setting the table.

“I hope it tastes just as good.”

Bringing the dishes to the center of the table, I scoop the rice onto each of our plates. I hand him the serving spoon and wait for him to add chicken to his plate before I do my own. The next few minutes are us sitting in silence, indulging in our dinner.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to talk about tomorrow? Your mom has called me a few times.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“You asked me if I wanted to talk about tomorrow and the answer is no,” I tell him.

“Okay, well if you don’t make plans you know she’s going to keep calling.”

“I’ll deal with it,” I deadpan. Eager to put an end to this conversation, I eat as fast as I can without making myself sick. Sitting with Elliot and hearing about him and my mom exchanging notes on how I am, and how I’ll deal with tomorrow is not how I want to spend my evening.

I give up on finishing the meal, with my mood now soured, I rise from my seat and take my plate to the sink. “I’ll clean up later.”

My blood is simmering, slowly. As each second passes, I’m closer to the brink of boiling over. I have to get in my room before my mask slips and I unravel in front of Elliot.

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