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It's only her fourth day in Harlem when Nunie leaves the apartment again. The incident at the deli—corner store, whatever you wanted to call it—had embarrassed and traumatized her.
Greatly.
She hadn't slept properly since that day because her mind decided to torture her with playing the memory on repeat in her mind. Every time she lived through it again, she cringed from second-hand embarrassment and tried to avoid smothering herself with a pillow to escape her own insanity.
Her grandparents were concerned when she ran in that night, dropping the beer on the coffee table before practically sprinting to her room. They'd exchanged a worried look behind her back before reluctantly leaving her alone for the night. That much Nunie was grateful for.
Once she was in the privacy of her own room, she broke down into tears—letting silent sobs rack her body, covering her mouth with her hand, so her cries weren't heard. She'd cried for an hour straight before she managed to dry her tears, compose herself, and turn her emotions off. Nunie finished the rest of her dresser in pure silence, rearranging her bedroom in the wee hours of the night. It was five A.M. when she'd finished the next day—her double bed fitted with sheets and pillows fluffed and clothes sorted into her dresser and small closet.
She'd passed out quite abruptly after that.
Now, it was the middle of the week and Nunie sat on her floor, her laptop balanced on her lap as she applied for various part-time jobs around Harlem. She needed the money.
Desperately.
She's in the middle of re-editing her resume to apply at McDonald's when her abuelita knocks on her door hesitantly.
"Come in," Nunie calls out to her softly, sitting criss-cross on her hardwood floor.
"Ay, mija, can you take out the garbage? Me duelen las rodillas (my knees are hurting)," her abuelita explains, opening the door fully, "you need some fresh air anyways, when was the last time you went outside?" Her abuelita scrunches up her nose, moving to open Nunie's window by her bed. Nunie watches as she does so, eyes turning back to her laptop screen, finishing the last touches on her resume before she closes it. Nunie has never had a job before, but she had no choice now, despite the dread that settles in the pits of her stomach just by the mere thought of it.
"Okay, is it by the door?" Nunie asks, yawning. She stands up on her feet, placing her laptop on her bed, stretching her arms high above her head. Her hair is pulled into a loose bun—held together by her fawn claw clip. She's wearing a pair of high-waisted flared grey yoga pants and a matching sport bra with an open-cut white pull over.
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