Sunday Routine By Dani Lewis
It was Sunday night, and the cozy feeling of a weekend well-spent was finally catching up to you. Your body wrapped in a white cotton robe recently salvaged at the local declining Macy’s, your feet relaxing in a hot rose petal bath. You watched the water pour from the spout, sending steam and stream swirling in symmetry throughout the small bath cubicle of your Long Island apartment. With the door closed and no one around to disturb you, it seemed an excellent time to light a cigarette. The flame flickered in the dim, fogged room, consuming the end of the roll. Your husband didn’t know about your habit, scooped up from high school friendships long ago. While they headed off to college and work, you’d stayed behind, stranded in the depths of the city. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Working? Well, doing what? Volunteering? No, you didn’t have the time. Marriage?… it’d certainly be the easiest path for you. You didn’t need to worry about taxes and comfort if a man paid. You didn’t really have to worry about purpose when the entire city rotted from the inside out from the infection of false intentions; the whole world. You weren’t going to make a difference. So why not live simply and put a ring on that finger.
It was this ring you gazed at as the universe crumbled around you.
A large diamond flashing in the hazy lighting, shooting red straight into your pupils. What was red in here? Maybe it wasn’t reflecting your candles at all, but your own state.
Despite the weekend of partying and shopping, and soft scented robe, and warm rose water, your chest still felt tight. Like the hands of the devil squeezing your lungs, and no – it wasn’t because of your smoking habit. Instead, something wrong vibrated from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet, and you simply could not figure out what it was. Frustrated, you slid into the aromatic bath before it became too cold to enjoy. You inhaled deeply from the thin roll of tobacco, exhaled, and repeated it all over and over again in a futile attempt to calm the hell down. In, out, in out. You had to relax, return to normal, before your husband came home from his Sunday pool. You’d huff and puff and blow the house down before you’d let him see this side of you.
Well, that wasn’t going to work fast enough- not unless you smoked a whole pack and set off the fire alarm, and then you’d really have problems. Just like you had graduated from one sorry stage of your life to the next, you moved on from cigarettes to drinking. You’d tried throughout last year to quit, but it was times like these when panic snuffed discipline. Wincing, you pulled yourself from the water’s warmth into the biting cold air. Pulling on your robe, you stumbled through the home, bearing witness to the kitchen with painful perceptiveness brought on by the smoke in your lungs. Laundry in a pile atop the white chilly tile, the one chore you had and you’ve been procrastinating for a week. Oops. Marble countertops with three vases full of flowers, those meaningless minuscule gestures from your husband a feeble attempt to win your heart. But how could he win something you’ve never been able to give? Industrial stainless steel appliances paired with dark wood and bleeding roses. Everything set in stone, crisp and clean, cookie cutter – like the mold you’ve been trying to fit yourself into since childhood. But the mold kept changing, and you couldn’t keep up.
“I’m such a failure,” you muttered as you whisked over to your personalized stash of red wines. The matured Cabernet would do for tonight. With a pop, the cork came off; you didn’t bother with one of your treasured glasses because it was a full possibility you’d break something tonight. So you took a long swig from the dark bottle and went on your merry way, just as you’ve done each week for the last two years.
You went about your Sunday routine, sipping the wine as you drained the abandoned bath and began spraying perfume all around. Opened the windows to let out the suffocating stench of anxiety. It was at this point you heard the screaming and glass shattering upstairs. The clock had just ticked to 11 pm, and your building neighbors were starting their routine as well. You wished you had the courage to step in sometimes, but often felt too intoxicated or anxious or insignificant to make an impact. Dimly, you wondered if the woman on the floor above you felt as helpless as you did. Then you hit yourself for asking such a self-centered and invalid question.
With a great sigh, you leaned outside the window and gazed into the early night traffic of New York. A guy whistled at you from the streets, and you smiled back, grateful for the attention. Your lungs still felt tight, forcing you to take shallow breaths.
You sipped the liquor again and admired the red and white flashing lights. As you’d done so many times before, you closed your eyes and let the sound of bar fights and angry honks consume you. Underneath it all, the silence of insignificance. These cars converging in the same spot at once, the happening of a lifetime. It would never occur again. And in a heartbeat, at the change of an automated traffic signal, everyone would move, rolling on to the next street of their life paths. Leaving you behind… just like all your loved ones, progressing while you digressed.
With a shock at your own emotion, you felt a tear slowly slip from your eye, following the curve of your cheek before it dripped onto the sidewalk 30 feet below. The wind roared. The cars honked and rolled forward several more feet. You peered over the frame to witness your tiny tear’s destiny.
Instead, you watched the downfall of another woman.
A crime scene, really. The wife upstairs, climbing an uphill battle against her abusive husband, had been thrown from the window just above yours. Her body had whipped through the air at fifteen meters per second and crashed onto the sidewalk below, killing her instantly. They’d later find bruises all over her body, the darkest circling her throat in the shape of livid fingers, preventing her from drawing breath in her final few moments. The husband, drunk from one whiskey too many. Witnesses had responded to the scene immediately, checking for a pulse and yelling, “Someone call 911!”
You numbly stared at the splotch of pavement where your tear and neighbor had both fallen to their fate, just a millisecond apart from one another. A similar end, at a similar time. In that instant, you felt a spark of regret and shame. If only you had reached out, you could have made a connection and helped someone. If you had reached out, you could have rescued her from her fate. Helpless and truly alone, you now faced a similar end to that innocent woman’s.
Shaking fingers placed the wine bottle on the balcony floor, and slid your phone from your pocket. You dialed 911 and held your breath until you heard the urgent tone of a female NYPD dispatcher, tired but professional while working the night shift. She asked basic questions like name and address before swiftly moving to the more important ones.
“What happened? Is anyone in danger?”
Watching cars pull over to see what was wrong, you responded, “My neighbor just dropped from the window.” Even to yourself, you sounded unnerved.
“Is she or he okay? How did this happen?”
“I…” Your eyes widened at the pool of blood growing larger underneath the young woman. She was around your age. “I think she’s dead,” you whispered. “I think she was pushed off, or maybe she jumped off.” Your body shook all over with the truth you’d been ignoring for years.
“Is this at your address?” The dispatcher asked. You responded – yes. “Help is on the way right now. But what about you, dear? You must be rattled. Are you okay?”
You inhaled deeply, somehow savoring the cool midnight air and this stranger’s concern for you. It felt unusual, but good. Okay. “I’m… not sure,” you said dumbly.
“Hang in there, sweetie. Stay on the line with me. You’re not alone.”
You took another deep inhale, realizing you could breathe for the first time today, and answered.
“Thank you.”
