There's something about the city before sunrise, which brings me peace. Which is a little ironic, because in theory I know that murders and rapists operate on the office hours of after sunset. But despite the statistics telling me otherwise, in the darkness is when I love to explore and clear my head.
The catch-22? I have a GPS tracker on my phone and knife stashed in my coat pocket. Freedom? Definitely not. But I'm not sure if that's exactly what Nelson Mandela was aiming for whenever he decided to march. Or maybe it was Martin Luther King? I'm not exactly sure.
The point is that I take risks, sometimes. In some ways, everything in life is a risk - which is something I try not to think about because it makes me go actually insane. I.e. it's what I started doing before I believed I had become schizophrenic. But no, I'm just plain-old Rosie...with a touch of OCD and GAD.
"Get the fuck away from me." A homeless man hanging around the nearest street corner shouts, speaking to someone that only he can see. It's still early so the normal people aren't around to judge or make eyes at him. People like that have always made me want to cross to the other side of the street. Not because they're unfamiliar but rather a little too close to home.
Downtown Portland on a Sunday morning is about as exciting as our home opener - minus the excruciatingly loud speakers and mascot that's trying too hard to do his job. We also got a DJ this past season as a way to pump up the crowd, but all he does is shout into the microphone and give me a headache.
What am I doing, up so early on a Sunday? Should I not be snuggled up in bed with my NHL beau and making babies like an Easy Bake Oven? Well, funny you should ask. Maybe not funny because that's a little weird to say, but what can I say, I'm a little psycho.
Erik isn't awake yet, at least he wasn't when I left home. Technically it's not my house, technically it's not anyone's house because it's an overpriced condo building. If technicalities were really concerned, I would slap an A on my chest and call myself a freeloader. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here, and then I remember that if I think too much about anything, I start to go insane. Which is exactly what brought me to this Starbucks at 5:35am.
"What can I get for you?" The barista behind the counter asks, it being too early for them to begin being fake nice. It's one of the reasons why I prefer to go in the early morning: no small talk, no awkwardly checking someone else's drink, and no having to never show your face again when you've realized you've become a regular.
"Can I get a grande iced latte?" I ask, avoiding eye contact with them like it's my full-time job. I'm not sure why I do it, sometimes I wonder if it's social anxiety or autism. And then I remember I have generalized anxiety disorder and would be dying from Malaria, as far as I was concerned.
I have the app on my phone all ready; and have since I was a block away. I also wanted to have my phone ready in case I needed to call the police on the homeless guy. Not that all homeless mentally ill people are dangerous, but the mentally ill person I've encountered for most of my life definitely was. Maybe still is, even.
"That'll be $5.37." He tells me, after punching a few buttons onto his screen. I hold out my phone and he scans my card, of course after which is the moment that I realize I forgot to get a muffin. So my awkward-ass self has to make him do two transactions. Which might not seem like a big deal to most, but then he doesn't understand what I'm saying when I tell him I don't want it warmed up and I feel like I'd like to melt into the floor.
When my muffin and coffee have finally arrived at the counter, I scoop them up and locate myself a table nearby. It's in the perfect location: far enough from everyone else, close enough to the nearest fire exit, and only has a slight wobble to the left leg. Not that I was really having to fight people for it, but it's nice to have my pick of the bunch.
I'm not really sure what I'm doing here; or why I got a muffin, after all. It's not like I can eat any of it.
I sit for so long that eventually the ice in my drink begins to melt and a fruit fly lands on my muffin and begins to procreate. People come in and out of the location; the sun eventually begins to rise; and I have exactly 26 new notifications on my phone.
When I step back outside it's 9:26am and I haven't eaten anything but the majority of my lower lip. It's a tasty treat, really. Very fulfilling. I don't think I have any room for more. So my muffin and drink are dumped into the garbage and I make my way home.
The sun has come out, which makes me sweat like a married man whose Tinder has been found. The streets are filled with people, now. I'm glad that I wore my baggiest pair of sweatpants and largest hooded jacket. Not because they're comfortable or fashionable but because I know I look bad enough that nobody's going to bother me. I think.
"Good morning, Rosie." The doorman of Erik and Kayden's condo building greets me, the vest he's wearing looking like it's two sizes too small. He has grey hair and wrinkles under his eyes which makes me wonder how old he is and why he's working here.
"Good morning." I respond back, giving him my best attempt at a smile - which could be described as a dog when the vet is checking their teeth.
Inside, the concierge lady greets me and begins to make small talk. I humor her for a few minutes, giving half-hearted responses that I think she'll enjoy before finally saying goodbye.
The elevator is probably the last place I ever thought I'd be able to find peace - given my fear of closed spaces. But knowing that what I'll be about to walk into will be the equivalent of a battlefield, or at the very least, a series of questions about my whereabouts, I think it wouldn't be the worst time for the elevator to go down.
Just as I have that thought, the elevator stops at my floor and shakes a little bit, causing me to take my words back tenfold. One floor in this fancy place is reserved for only one unit. That's right, these rich motherfuckers get an entire floor to themselves to do god knows what. Well, actually, I'm sure everyone knows what Kayden's been doing on his floor. And much to my dismay, so have I.
"Where have you been?" It's the first question Erik asks, sounding it off before I'm even through the door. For a moment, I consider walking right back out and running to the nearest fire escape. I could move to Mexico; change my name, Rosalia has a nice ring to it. Maybe too similar to my current alias, though.
Before I have the time to commit to fight or flight, Erik's waddling on over and wrapping his arms around me. It's not exactly the reaction I thought he'd have; considering I lied to him about waiting with the abortion pill. I wonder why he's not mad; or maybe he is, and is just waiting to erupt. Or maybe he's one of those passive aggressive angry people. Where when we'll be eating dinner and I forget to put salt in the pasta water, he'll flip out or make some underhanded comment about how I'm still trying to kill my unborn child.
See a man when he's happy, and you'll know nothing. See a man when he's angry, or when his team has lost the world series; and you'll know everything in the world. That's not an actual quote by someone but something I just thought of myself. Yeah, no wonder I couldn't get into AP English.
"I was worried about you." He tells me, squeezing me tighter than I squeeze Mr. Fluffypants when I like his scent. I don't know exactly what it's called, but whatever happens when you sleep with something every night, that's the smell. Mold? Saliva? Your guess is as good as mine. "I woke up and you were gone, I thought maybe something had happened." He tells me, stepping back and tugging a hand through his hair.
His hair looks like the equivalent of Cruella Deville when she realized she could just get a bunch of white dogs and paint black spots on them. Or when she realized that they only sell fake fur in prison. One of those two.
"I just went for a walk." I tell him, lying through my acid-stained teeth. Yes, I know. Va-va-voom. They don't call it the art of seduction for nothing. Maybe I'll even drop a few eye crusts and really get everyone in the mood.
"For two hours?" He questions, furrowing his eyebrows together like he's using his face as a transportation chain for those caterpillars. I know I'm supposed to say something but my face feels flush and I can't think of anything other than my empty stomach. I wonder if that blueberry muffin is still there or if the rabid squirrels have picked over it yet?
We're in an intense stare-off: me, staring at the expensive wallpaper in the foyer; and Erik, staring at me, waiting for answers like he's Alex Trebek. Thankfully, I'm not left alone and have the backup assistance of one Kayden Williams.