They were rare, expensive. My parents had given me to him as a child; he had placed me inside of his own suit, bringing me to safety.
Putting on the Revolver LP vinyl, Taxman croons, the sound calming me easily, I listen to song after song as the sunsets and the usual darkness encroaches my home, I sigh, and I Want To Tell You brings a old memory of Dmitri rocking me to sleep, the same rocking chair still in my room, though he has long stopped rocking me to sleep. At first I noted the changes, him distancing himself and thought it was me, that I had done something wrong to push him away, but with age my, with my love for literature, for numbers for learning and devouring all the books he brought, I learned that it wasn't anything I could help.
Things change.
People grow. What is the least problematic solution? Adapt.
So I did.
Turning away from the window, lights dancing off the trees below reflecting in my peripheral, and I do a double take my heart thumping quickly as I lift a hand against the cooler glass. He's coming, my forehead against the earlier tension falls away, and my bottom lip trembles, my breath fogging the glass, and in a moment of panic I wipe away the condensation obscuring my view.
"He didn't forget me," I sigh, repeating those words that quell my panic in small momentary relief. The headlights shine through the darkness and in a last ditch moment, I run to the mirror to fix myself, my wild curly hair fans around my face, my face smaller, thinner from lack of food, under my bluish- green eyes dark circles from worry and lack of sleep startle me. I know Dmitri will notice and the last thing I want is for him to believe I am not taking care of myself while he is away.
My lips red from chewing on them, I look at my clothes, a plain black shirt and shorts I made on my sewing machine with fabrics Dmitri obtained for me. I run back over to the window overlooking the barely used dirt road to see a car not at all like what Dmitri drives. I frown. Alarmed I take one step away from my spot, but still that minor relief felt, quells a bit of anxiety.
The fright I pushed down, flares instantly as I take in more of the car headed up the driveway. Black body, the windows are darker, the car larger and even in my panic I feel my face turn up to a slow smile. It's much bigger; hope surges inside me that he's brought a new bigger car because I'll finally be able to join him out there.
I exhale shakily, and before the car has come to a stop I run to the steps, down, going to the door that has the lock that only Dmitri knows, I wait bouncing on the balls of my feet. And when through four thick glass windows a man that looks nothing like my Dmitri leaves the car - not wearing a suit - and my brain stumbles.
His brown eyes connect with mine and all I see is dread and something I cannot understand. He isn't wearing a suit, I note on the side. Where is Dmitri? He's not wearing a mask, and I see him inhale. The air out there is no longer dangerous – hazardous? Where is Dmitri? My mind bounces from one thought to another.
The man continues to the door, his eyes not leaving mine, he lifts his hand to the keypad outside - "Anyone that comes here with the code to the keypad Faith, you can trust them," words said years back creep into the chaos.
He isn't wearing a mask, or body suit, and he's breathing outside, the air is safe? He steps inside and the process I'm so familiar with startles him, the decontamination process. He shakes his head and the connection between us breaks and I stand waiting, tense until the final glass pushes to the side automatically.
"Where is Dmitri?" my voice shakes and again, his words from years before are all that keeps me in place.
The man blinks, "Fatima?" I shake my head. That is my name of course, Fatima Safiya Ashlynn, but,"Faith," I murmur, "Dmitri calls me Faith." The man nods, his eyes are pained. That's it! The part of my brain working to deconstruct his facial expressions notes and the next step is connecting his pained expression with its reason.
