She knew he was a good man, for reasons she could probably list if she had the time and inclination to sit and list them, but the reason she could always give if she thought anyone would understand was that he’d once patted her butt and been shocked and dismayed by the action. The look on his face and his stammering were all the proof she needed that he was a good man. Although a bit more explanation could help those who weren’t there and might not otherwise understand.

The thing was: he was her step-dad. Normally you hear of a step-dad patting a teenagers posterior and you think: disgusting, abuser, rapist. And all for good reason. The thing was, he had done it reflexively, out of habit, because that’s what he did to his wife, her mom. It was his silent and gentle, “I love you,” given usually when she was in the act of doing something that showed her love and appreciation for him: making dinner, bringing him a cup of tea, covering him with a blanket when it was chilly. A soft pat, pat, pat on her rump.

The night he patted her they were all three in the kitchen making dinner together. Rather than have one cook in the kitchen responsible for the whole shebang, they’d divvied up the chore such that he was making the main course, her mom was making the salad, and she was making the veggie side dish. They were all talking about their day, and she had gone to fetch her parents each a glass of wine. She gave her mother hers first and earned a “thank you, sweetie,” and hug for her efforts. She’d taken the other glass to her step-dad next and he’d said, “mmm,” taking a sip, “thank you,” and then patted her butt.

Everyone froze. He immediately began to turn red and apologize and then stammer through something that sounded somewhat like, “I didn’t mean…was that…I don’t know….” Before he started sweating too profusely she and her mother, both looking at each other the entire time a question in one another’s eyes, began to smile and laugh. “Was that okay? Is it okay to do that?” he finally asked. Mother and daughter looking at one another still, replied together with identical shrugs. “I guess so,” she said. “I think it’s okay,” her mother said.

Despite their affirmations that they both understood completely that there was nothing sexual or untoward meant by the gesture, despite their affirmations that they both knew he was simply using the only sweet and loving gesture he’d ever learned in a habitual manner on the incorrect recipient. Despite it all, he never once repeated the gesture. It had embarrassed him, shaken him to the core. The very idea of himself being seen or thought of as anything other than a good man was more than he could handle.

And while she was perfectly okay with it, aside from the fact that it was awkward because she understood that the gesture on it’s own could be construed as sexually intimate despite knowing wholeheartedly that it was not meant that way when done to her, she was also sad and relieved that it never happened again. She knew he loved her like a daughter. She knew he would do anything for her, just as he would for his biological children. She knew. And she knew he was a good man. Still. It had been nice for just a moment to know that she had received a token of his affection that his biological children never had. She had been treated extra special, just once. Even if it was comical and accidental.

It was not an event she could tell anyone about though. She knew that without anyone having to tell her. Not that her mother or step-dad would tell her she couldn’t talk about it, or imply that, or in any way ask her to keep it secret. They were good people. And despite it’s lack of sexual meaning, she knew that she could never tell someone “he’s a good man because he once patted my butt and was mortified,” because they wouldn’t understand. They might say, “oh my gosh, that’s too funny,” or they might say, “wait, he did what?” or they might say, “are you sure you’re okay with it?” But what they’d really be saying, what she knew they were really thinking was, “that’s dirty and I bet it’s just a matter of time before he tries something else.”

Which is why when she walked out of her room naked to go to the bathroom on a weekend when she thought she’d heard her parents leave for breakfast, and instead ran into her step-dad fixing the leaky sink faucet she’d been begging him to fix for weeks, and it was her turn to be completely mortified. She was also even more sure that this was a story she could never share either because people would say things like, “oh my god, I would just die of embarrassment,” or maybe, “dude, that’s super awkward, what the hell were you doing walking around the house naked?” or maybe, “wait, you did what?” But what they’d really be saying, what she knew they were really thinking was “that’s dirty and I told you it was a matter of time before he’d try something else.”

It wouldn’t matter that when she realized he was there she immediately “eep”-ed, turned around, and flew back into her room, slamming the door behind her, turning bright red and leaning her back against the door, her head hanging down in shame. It wouldn’t matter that he stood in the bathroom for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to say before walking towards her door (not too close), and saying, “hey, you know, it’s no big deal. I didn’t see anything. I should have warned you I was down here. That faucet is fixed now. I’m going back upstairs. It’s really no big deal,” and then walking up the stairs and away from the red-hot shame she knew could be felt for a mile around her person.

She knew he was a good man. She knew she could explain how she knew that if she was given enough time, but it would be things like, “he’s thoughtful about birthday and Christmas gifts,” and “he always asks if I need any money when I go out with friends,” and “he says I can call anytime for anything if I don’t feel safe or I need help,” and everyone would nod at those things and think “yeah, he’s a good guy, I guess. I mean, those are things a good guy would do.” But they wouldn’t really get it. They wouldn’t really know deep in their bones that he was a good guy. Because she’d never be able to explain it. No one would understand. But he was a good guy.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

She was so in love with him. It had only been a few months, but she’d fallen hard. She had all these rules in her head that she tried to live by when it came to love, rules created from past experiences where things had gone wrong and she’d decided to learn from her mistakes rather than repeat them. So even though it had only been a few months, and even though she’d fallen hard, she tried to keep perspective. She told her best friend all about him, of course. “Have you told him you loved him?” her friend asked.

Rule #1: Never Fall In Love Before Dating a Minimum of Six Months

She knew within two weeks that this man would be trouble for her rules. He was all the things she’d decided she needed in a man, and so many things she wasn’t sure she could handle. They met every single evening for dinner and drinks, their dogs by their sides on the patio. They discussed everything from religion and politics to children and retirement. They were so in sync with one another, even when they disagreed, that she began to understand why people wanted to marry their best friends. In a way, he was her new best friend. But not really, because she still went home and told her actual best friend more about him. “When are you moving in together?” her friend asked.

Rule #2: Never Think You Know a Man Before Living With Him a Minimum of Six Months

They decided to move in together, why not? They spent so much time together anyway, it was a logical next step. They discussed their respective separate spaces and chose to live in hers. They went through their respective separate spaces and decided which of their things they’d live with and which of their things they’d put in storage (they kept his bed, her couch, his coffee table, and her dishes). They were now able to have even more sex, which they both considered a bonus. Now there were opportunities in the morning upon waking, at lunch time if they could both make it home in time, the regular pre-bed sex, and of course all kinds of extra sex on the weekends and in the occasional middle of the night when one or the other had gotten up to pee in the freezing cold and they snuggled up together to warm back up. They were madly in love and after only four months felt they’d lived together forever and also like they’d wasted so much time not moving in sooner. “When are you getting married?” her friend asked.

Rule #3: Never Get Married

Every married couple she knew was miserable with very few exceptions and she could count those on one hand. She came from a “broken home” and so did he. They agreed neither one had any intention to get married. And that was that. But as the years passed and their love only deepened one or the other would occasionally remark upon why they weren’t married. The idea that getting married would automatically mean they’d begin to take one another for granted, or that their sex life would immediately cease, began to seem ridiculous. Marriage as an institution doesn’t mean any of those things, it’s the people behind the marriage and whether or not they can maintain appreciation for one another. They were married a month later. “When are you having kids?” her friend asked.

Rule #4: Never Have Children

They’d discussed kids enough times while dating. They both wanted them but were also afraid. Everyone they knew with kids never slept, had sex, or seemed to love each other anymore; their lives were all about their kids. And maybe that’s how it has to be in the beginning especially, with young children, but they didn’t want that. They debated and decided to leave it up to nature to decide. They stopped using protection and were pregnant within a month. It was fast. Perhaps a bit too fast. But they were both thrilled, reveling in the idea of a family, old traditions they could continue, new traditions they could create, the type of parents they wanted to be, the possibilities for who their child would be. They were confident they would do things better, different, they wouldn’t let their relationship fall to the child executioner. “Are you going to have time for me?” her friend asked.

Rule #5: Never Lose Sight of Your Friends

Anytime people start new relationships they seem to lose their friendships. It’s the excitement of someone new, the thrill of spending as much time as possible with this new potential mate, friends tend to fall by the wayside. It happens. But she’d refused to let it happen to her after it happened that first time. She’d learned her lesson. She always had time for her best friend, or made time. With the birth of her first child she completely lost track of days, weeks, months, a year. Her time was taken entirely by the little life she’d created and now nourished and bathed and clothed and held. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d seen her bestie, hadn’t even considered that it had been a year, until she realized it had. She celebrated her child’s first birthday and the very next day called her friend. “You’ve survived! Are you divorced yet?” she asked.

Rule #6: If You Have to Separate Keep it Amicable

They wanted different things. He wanted sex every day and weekends with his buddies down at the lake. She wanted someone to take the baby for an hour everyday and someone to share the cooking. They’d fought about these things multiple times and finally decided they didn’t want to reconcile. They preferred to go their separate ways rather than try to repair the road they’d been travelling together. And so they got divorced. The most amicable divorce anyone had ever heard of: they treated one another the way they wanted to be treated, splitting custody fairly down the middle, splitting their assets fairly down the middle, agreeing to an every-other-holiday schedule rather than trying to split holidays in half. They’d long ago sold everything they had in storage so they decided who would take what (he kept the bed, she kept the couch, he kept the coffee table, and she kept the dishes). They sold the house. “Let’s go out this weekend,” her friend said.

Rule #7: Never Go Back

Their separation was so well executed that they began to wonder why they separated at all. They still loved each other, especially as they spent time apart, and time with their child who was so much each of them it was maddening. Perhaps they’d rushed into the divorce. But she’d learned from the past: never go back because there’s a reason it didn’t work the first time and that reason is still there. When it was her weekend without their child she spent time with her bestie. When it was her weekend with her child she spent time being the best parent she could be. She began meeting new people by virtue of her new free half-time, new parents, new single parents, new single men. She even dated a few times, but no one that measured up to her ex-husband, no one who could be half the father to her child that he was. “You just need to sleep with someone else,” her friend said.

Rule #8: Never Sleep With Someone To Get Over Someone

She was wrong. All wrong about rule #8. She ended up having a few too many drinks with a single dad friend and one thing led to another. The next thing she knew she’d had sex. With someone other than her husband. For the first time in years. It was a revelation. It was also awkward, and sloppy, and not actually the best ever, but it was also different and freeing and somehow snapped the anchor keeping her from moving on. She was suddenly free to see all the ways that her new life afforded her the things she’d been wanting or needing but hadn’t been able to vocalize. She saw clearly that what she wanted was exactly what she now had: half-time freedom. She could be the very best parent she could possibly be for half the time and the other half of the time she could read with abandon, fix popcorn and a glass of wine for dinner, and binge watch television, all with no repercussions. This was the life she’d never knew she always wanted, and now she had it.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

The invitation could not have arrived at a worse time, or a better time, depending on how you looked at it. It marked one year since she’d left a nearly ten-year relationship, with a mound of debt (now paid off in full with the exception of her car payment), turned thirty, and moved in with her parents (how else could she have paid off a mound of debt in a year?). In the meantime, she’d made absolutely no progress on buying a house, and no progress on finding a new mate. Receiving an invitation to a wedding was a kick in the teeth, an invite to a destination wedding meant it was slightly less-so.

It was odd to receive the invitation at all. Since they’d been roommates in college, the ladies hadn’t connected more than once in real life and rarely spoke on social media or via text or email. At first she felt it was a pretty clear case of being invited to ensure another item on the registry was purchased. The more she thought about it though, the more she decided that perhaps this was her feeling sorry for herself and not the truth of the matter which is that they had been relatively close in college, they had tried to keep in touch, and they’d been close during a pretty traumatic event which tends to breed a closeness that otherwise wouldn’t exist. She took the invitation in hand, re-read it, and decided to sleep on it.

The next morning she woke to the sound of water rushing through the pipes in the wall: her parents were awake. The reminder that she was once again living with her parents was all she needed to pick up the invitation and check the yes box. If nothing else it would be a weekend away from her life in a state she’d never been to and maybe she’d even get laid (that happened at weddings, right?). She dropped the accepted invitation in the mail on her way to work and bought a gift online during her lunch break, that night after work she went online and arranged her flight and her hotel room. Then she settled in to wait the four months until the wedding.

When she arrived at the airport four months later there was a shuttle waiting to take her to the hotel. She collected her bag and enjoyed the absolutely gorgeous scenery along the ride. She’d never been out east in the fall and the foliage was astounding. She’d seen pictures of course all the reds and yellows and oranges, but in person it was just breathtaking. When she arrived at the hotel she checked in, put her bag in her room, grabbed the wedding itinerary from the desk top, and went right back outside again to continue marveling at the mountains and the leaves.

After about twenty minutes in the chilly air she was ready to return inside. She found the bar, ordered a beer, and began perusing the itinerary. There were all sorts of moments where she was expected to assist the bride in this or that task, and it was only then that she realized she had no idea how to do any of it. For example, assist the bride in getting ready for brunch…what in the world did that mean? Was she no longer able to dress herself? Had something happened that she was unaware of, something that prevented her friend, the bride, from performing her own dressing or grooming functions? There was a moment of panic as she read just how many of these moments there were over the next 36 hours.

“Hey, you made it!” said a familiar voice behind her as she felt a hand come down on her shoulder.

“Hi! It’s so good to see you, it’s been so long. You look great! Still doing stand-up?” she asked as they came out of the obligatory hug. It was the bride’s brother, Jordan, and you couldn’t ask for a man more adorable, kind, or talented.

“Yup, sure am. I’m getting to where I’m booking some pretty big places with it, too, which feels nice. I’m not saying I’ll be getting my own HBO Special anytime soon, but it’s getting big and that feels good.”

“I’m so happy for you, you deserve it,” she said smiling and thinking about nothing but his smile and also how good he smelled and also how there was absolutely no way anything was ever going to happen between them and how that made it both sad and safe.

“How about you? I heard you were buying a house?”

“Yeah, well, trying to. Ha! That’s been an ordeal. There’s a lot out there, but not that I can afford or can afford to fix, so” she laughed and took a deep breath, “still living with my parents,” she finished sighing.

“I hear ya, I had to move back in with mine, too. It’s not the greatest. But, it’s also not forever and totally worth it in the long run. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself,” he laughed. “So, Tracy is going to be crazy busy all weekend and I’m not really sure how much of her you’ll get to see, but the rest of the bridal party really wants to meet you and we’re hoping you’ll spend your free time with us?”

“Oh, wow, the bridal party? I hadn’t expected,” she began before realizing that she didn’t actually have any plans except the wedding itself, “sure, that’d be great,” she said.

“Want to come now? We’re all supposed to be getting together for dinner and drinks in about five minutes in the lobby.”

“Great,” she said, “I’m all paid up here,” she finished her beer, and left a couple bucks on the bar under the bottle, then followed him out to the lobby.

She met the entire wedding party, minus the bride and groom. Some of them she’d actually met once before at an event they’d all attended, one of Jordan’s first stand-up gigs if she remembered correctly, but the rest were all brand new faces and not exactly friendly. She was introduced all around and did her best to remembers the names that went with the faces, but that had never been her strong suit. She was grateful when they all determined it was time to head over to eat and the attention shifted away from her arrival.

At dinner she mostly sat quietly listening to everyone else banter. It was clear this group was pretty close. She laughed here and there but mostly she just listened, and in listening realized, she did not like these people. They were shallow, self-absorbed, and had way too much money. How had they all become Tara’s friends? Or Jordan’s for that matter. He seemed to be getting along just fine, not finding any of it awkward or distasteful. She realized they were all looking at her and that she’d been too busy in her own head to notice what had just been aimed at her.

“I’m sorry, I was in my head for a moment, could you repeat that?” she asked with a slight abashed smile.

“I was wondering why you came when it was an out-of-town wedding and you haven’t seen the bride in years,” said the woman with the indescribably long black hair, perfect figure, and cat eyes that were as much due to her snarky nature as her make-up talent.

“Tara invited me,” she stammered, shocked at being asked something so rude, and surprised that everyone at the table appeared to be waiting for an answer rather than looking in their laps or away or feigning any sort of understanding about just how rude the question had been. She looked to Jordan and saw that he too was looking at her, although he had the grace to look down when she caught his eye.

“I think what Tammy means is that it costs a lot of money to go to a destination wedding, and you and Tara aren’t really as close as you used to be,” Jordan said starting out sounding like he was defending her but mumbling by the end as he realized he was just stoking Tammy’s fire.

“Clearly this is a small, intimate wedding for the closest family and friends, and it just seems odd that you came,” Tammy said, “I’m not trying to be mean, I’m trying to understand why you said you’d come.”

Not trying to be mean my ass, she thought, “I just thought Tara wanted me here, hence the invitation. If that’s not the case I had no way of knowing that and it’s a little late for me to change my RSVP,” she said, as she picked her napkin up out of her lap, “at any rate,” she continued, “I think I’ll head back now. Thank you for a lovely meal.” She grabbed her purse, opened it and took out forty dollars, leaving it on the table by her plate and walking out.

She was mortified. And livid. And reminded once again that she had no place. She didn’t belong at home with her parents. She didn’t belong at this wedding. She didn’t have a home of her own, or a lover, or a pet, or a child. She was just herself, unmoored.

Why did Tara invite me, she wondered. Was she hoping I’d say I couldn’t come and send a gift? Why risk that I’d say yes, which I did, and now here we are. Had she counted on the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in so long, had she banked on it? If that’s the case she should have been too embarrassed to send me an invite. If you don’t want to risk me attending you shouldn’t risk inviting me. It made no sense.

She figured things would be better the next day, the day of the wedding. By then she’d see the bride, actually get to see Tara, and she was confident that in seeing her she’d understand everything. All would be revealed. She returned to the hotel and her bed and slept with the conviction that tomorrow would be better.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

She was worried their friendship wouldn’t last much longer. It had always depended upon one of them needing the other: a broken love relationship, a lost job, a death in the family. Whatever it was it was always one of them being a rock for the other one and then switching, or not, sometimes the rock was the strong one for a few events in a row before slipping into the role of the weak one. At any rate, they always went back and forth, they were never both rocks and they were never both weak. Perhaps things would be different if they’d ever been able to occupy the same role comfortably. Perhaps.

As it stood they’d both been in a place of strength for months. They’d texted less and less often, seen each other in person fewer times each month, and stopped making future plans to see each other. There was something about them not needing one another to lean on that caused them to also not need one another at all, for anything. It was sad and inexplicable. Did they really have nothing to say to one another unless one of them was falling apart?

She’d considered creating some drama, a fake spiritual crisis, they were approaching forty after all. She considered pretending that forty was a terrifying prospect for her. She didn’t think she could pull it off. And she also realized that if she had to lie to her friend to keep her friend, perhaps the friendship wasn’t worth keeping. She finally decided she’d set a date to see her friend again and explain that she’d always be there for her, but that she no longer wanted to limp along pretending they were more to each other than a crutch. The prospect of the conversation saddened her and relieved her.

The day they’d set to meet up dawned like any other: stunningly beautiful sunrise, she got ready to leave like always, and everything was just so. They arrived at the restaurant within moments of one another, hugged in the parking lot on the way in, and then entered together getting seated right away. They made small talk while they waited to place their drink and food orders, then sat in an awkward and fidgety silence waiting for their coffees to arrive.

The coffee arrived hot and beautiful: little foam and espresso artwork on top. They admired each others foam for a moment before clinking mugs in a cheers and taking their first sips. Their collective “ah’s” of appreciation drew a few stares from neighboring tables and they laughed at themselves. Surely they could save this friendship.

“So, I wanted to get together today because,” she cleared her throat, “well, it seems like things have really been going well for both of us and for whatever reason we aren’t really talking anymore,” she laughed and took a sip of her coffee.

Her friend took the opportunity to jump in, “yeah, I’ve totally noticed that too. It’s strange, right? I mean, I love hearing about how happy you are and I love being happy, but I feel like our happy’s don’t mesh,” she shrugged, unable to express exactly what she meant.

“Oh my gosh, yes! I agree! It’s just like that. When I’m having a hard time there is no one in the world I need so much as I need you. But when things are going well, it’s like I tell you but I don’t get that same feeling of connection as I do when it’s something bad. It doesn’t make sense and it just leaves me feeling…” she waved her hand in circles, looking for the description of her feelings.

“Empty? Like, it takes away your good feelings to tell me about your good feelings, whereas when you tell me about your bad feelings you feel lighter but also fuller?” her friend interjected.

“Yes! That’s exactly it. Feeling bad, I have to talk to you to feel better. Feeling good, I talk to you and I feel worse. But I don’t understand why. You’re amazing. You’re absolutely my very best friend ever. I don’t understand why I can’t share good and bad with you equally.”

“No, I get it, because I feel exactly the same way. When something major amazing happens, of course I want to tell you right away because I share everything with you, but then somehow the awesome starts to wear a little the moment I share it,” her friend concurred.

“So what do we do? I don’t want to lose you as a friend,” she said, reaching out across the table and holding her friends hands in hers.

They looked into each others eyes for a moment and then laughed, separating their hands and drinking from their coffees. Their food arrived and they began eating.

“This place is the best,” she said, licking some Hollandaise sauce off her lower lip.

“Definitely the best,” her friend agreed. “Okay, so how about if we continue to meet once a month for breakfast, like this. If things are going great, we just have breakfast, the end. If things aren’t going great we can still start the day over breakfast but then rather than ending the day, we continue it to lean on one another. Does that work? I mean, coffee and breakfast once a month even when our lives are fabulous only makes our lives more fabulous, right?”

“That’s true. I like the way you’re thinking,” she said, “and maybe, even if things are good we can still continue our day after breakfast by going to a movie or an event or something? Just because our fabulous lives and our fabulous breakfasts are over it doesn’t mean we can’t do other fabulous things together, it just means we can’t talk about our fabulous lives,” she laughed and drained the last of her coffee.

“Yes! I love it! I love this plan!” her friend exclaimed. “And I have to say, I’m so glad. I was really worried about today. I came here this morning expecting to have to friendship break up with you and it was making me miserable.”

“Me too!” she said, her right hand going to her chest. “I’ve been a bit miserable about it and was trying to figure out how I could spin that unhappiness into something more, something that would allow us to continue on as before.”

They laughed at each other and themselves.

“And also, I’m really happy for you. I hope you know that. I’ve been so glad you finally got all the good things you’ve earned in this life coming to you,” she said.

“Thank you. I agree. I mean, I agree the same thing about you. I’ve always felt you got dealt some pretty crap cards and you’ve managed to play them beautifully and come out on top,” her friend said, smiling.

“So, do we want to start today? Go somewhere after breakfast?”

“Definitely. Do you have anything in mind?” her friend asked.

“Well I was thinking I’d head over to the garden show over at the stadium today. Does that sound fun?”

“Absolutely! That sounds perfect. And I’m in this awesome walking challenge on my step counter so that would help me get in the steps I need to crush my competitors,” her friend laughed.

“You have a step counter? Me too! I just got one to track my sleep, which it turns out I’m getting even less of than I’d thought, so that’s not cool. But otherwise I love it. I’m surprised by how much I enjoy all the bits of info it tells me about how I spend my day. And the reminders to move when I’ve been sedentary for too long.”

“Isn’t that the best?” her friend agreed. “You should join my challenges, if you’re into that kind of thing. I usually go up against a couple ladies from work. They really keep me on my toes.”

“I’d love to!” she said, “want to carpool to the garden show and you can make us friends on the app while I drive?”

“Excellent. Yes.”

“And it’s my treat for breakfast,” she said, “you bought last time.”

“Okay, but then I get entrance fee to the garden show,” her friend said.

“Fine by me,” she laughed, “it’s free.”

The check arrived, she pulled out some cash and left it in the book. They smiled at each other, and simultaneously asked, “shall we?”

“This,” she said, catching her breath between laughter, “this is what I was hoping to save.”

They hugged and walked out, chatting about what they hoped to find at the garden show and whether or not they thought the step counter craze would last. And I’m so bored by this story that I can only say thank goodness:

~~~That’s one hour~~~

This is the first part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

When she’d struck out on her own, she’d left with nearly nothing, a bag of clothes, her car, her phone, some toiletries, a couple hundred bucks, and her scant resume with her new name saved to a thumbdrive. She spent the first hour driving as fast as she dared on the highway heading east. East would get her out of the state quickest, not that she was particularly enamored with her choices from there, it wasn’t about that. She only had so much time and so much money.

Once across state lines she made a beeline for the nearest big city. This route took her a bit south and a bit further east. She would be there in roughly another hour. Perfect timing to fill the tank and make her purchases. Until then she had nothing more to do but drive, slightly slower now, hovering within five miles of the speed limit, and stay awake. Not easy to do at 3am, but easier than being caught and going back.

She arrived in the city completely exhausted, the thrill of adrenaline rushing through her at her initial escape long since run out. It was 4am, a time she’d only ever seen once or twice in her life, and she was amazed by how many cars were on the road, she’d expected none, and by how many businesses were open, although this was a city and things would obviously run differently here.

She pumped her gas and tried to look casual as she glanced up and down the main street looking for other open businesses that would have what she needed. Spying an open drugstore she breathed a sigh of relief, topped up the tank despite the signage warning against it, and went back into the station for her change.

“Ladies don’t normally pump gas ’round here after seven or before seven,” the attendant commented, the toothpick sticking out sideways from the corner of his mouth bobbing up and down as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” she breathed as she collected the change from his out held hand, “thanks.”

Her impulse was to run back to her car but knew that would draw all kinds of unwanted attention from a man already paying her too much. She walked calmly back to her car, head held at what she hoped was a normal angle, trying desperately not to duck and make herself small. She got back in the car, locked the doors, and immediately set off for the drugstore.

Hoping any cashiers and workers in the store at this hour would be too tired to comment on her, she went inside, grabbed a handheld basket and walked around. She wanted to be sure she wasn’t remembered as odd so bought the sorts of things she figured people out at four in the morning bought: a box of cold and flu medicine and a box of tissue, in addition to the main purpose of her visit, a box of hair dye, some scissors, a bottle of nail polish, and an all-in-one makeup kit.

“Find what you need?” the cashier asked in a bored voice.

“Yeah, thanks,” she replied, “sucks being sick with nothing to do.” She gave a little laugh, followed by a cough.

“That’ll be $60.42,” the cashier said.

She blanched at the total but tried to turn it into a fake sneeze, “oh, right, here,” she handed him a wad of twenties.

The cashier handed her the change and in the same robotic voice said, “have a good day.”

She “you too’ed” as she swept up her bag and headed out. By now she was rather desperate to pee, but she also needed a place to do her hair, a place where no one would notice she’d been in the bathroom that long.

“Think, think, think,” she muttered under her breath as she sat in the car in the parking lot. She could turn around and go back into the drugstore, but that would make her memorable. She could go back to the gas station, but she knew that wasn’t really an option even as she thought it. She glanced up and down the street and seeing nothing that would work, she decided to start driving.

She drove back the way she came knowing she’d need to get on the highway again and hoping against hope that something would appear before she got there. Nothing. Most businesses were still closed and the ones that were open would definitely notice if she disappeared for more than five minutes. “Damn,” she said as she began steering towards the on ramp.

And then something caught her eye under the bridge of the highway. Something over on the other side. “That might work,” she breathed. She steered back into the forward lane after checking her mirrors and drove under the overpass. There it was, a neighborhood park well lit, grass cut, with a large stone building that looked like it may house a bathroom. She drove around the park a bit more looking for the parking lot, found it, and then decided to park on the street against the curb close to the bathroom.

She grabbed her bag from the drugstore, removed the scissors and hair dye, checked out her windows that no one was about, and jumped out, shutting the door and locking it as she sprinted to the bathroom. She tried the women’s room door and it was locked. “Shit!” she breathed. She went round to the men’s room door and tried it, locked too. She was trying not to panic, clearly there would be another option if she could just think of it, when she saw there was a third door. A family bathroom. Fingers crossed she approached and tried the door, unlocked.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she opened the door, looked into the dim interior to be sure it was empty, and then went in, locking the door behind her. She peed first as she couldn’t hold it anymore. Another sigh of relief and then she went to the sink and washed her hands. She looked up to see what she was going to do about her hair and realized there was no mirror. Of course there wouldn’t be a mirror at a public park, “stupid” she berated herself aloud. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and turned on the camera feature, flipping it around as though she were about to take a selfie. The lighting in the bathroom was terrible as she was too afraid to turn the electrical lights on and was relying solely on the light coming in through the skylight, and while the sun was rising it was still early.

Doing her best she parted her hair in the middle using her hands, fingers combing strands this way and that. It would never work, she just couldn’t see well enough. She thought again and realized her best bet was a ponytail. She swept all the strands up into her left hand, making sure she got it all, then pulled the rubber band she always wore on her right wrist up and over the mass of hair, twisting it, and pulling the hair back through. Once it was all in as nice and tight a tail as she could make she put her left hand around the rubber band, using her finger and thumb to count off roughly an inch away, and then raised her right hand with the scissors and began cutting. She cut as close to her finger and thumb as possible, being careful not to cut herself in the process.

She didn’t realize how difficult it would be to cut through all that hair with cheap drugstore scissors, but she powered through and finally felt the last of the hair drift away. Using her left hand she felt around the new stump for any errant hairs. Finding none she took the rubber band out, ran her fingers through her new short hair and then, taking a deep breath, looked into her phone camera. She almost didn’t recognize herself. The hair cut really wasn’t that bad, obviously not professionally done, but not any worse than a strip mall haircutter would do.

Wasting no time she grabbed the box of dye and began reading the instructions. It was may more complicated than she’d expected, than she’d seen in The Fugitive. There was all kinds of water and wait time and towels suggested on the box that simply weren’t options for her now. She stuck her head in the sink, hit the little push down knobs and felt the freezing cold water course down over her scalp and face and neck. Continually depressing the knobs so the water wouldn’t stop she got what was left her hair good and soaking wet. She then grabbed the plastic bottle from the kit, cut open the bag of powder and dumped it. Again she depressed the knobs to fill the remainder of the bottle with water. Plunking on the lid she shook and shook and shook the bottle until she was sure the powder had all dissolved. Then she put her head back down in the sink and began squirting the bottle all over her head as close to the scalp as she could get without being able to see what she was doing and using her fingers to help spread it out to the ends of her hair. She scrubbed all around her ears and neck and forehead.

“This better work,” she said softly. Not wanting to wait the fortyfive minutes suggested on the box she began cleaning up the impossibly long strands of her hair from the floor, shoving them in the now empty hair dye box, she ran out of room and began putting the remaining strands on a paper towel she pulled from the dispenser. Once she was fairly sure she’d gotten it all she figured she’d used as much time as she could afford and she began to rinse out the dye. Plunging the water knobs down over and over, scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing until the water going down the drain was just only slightly discolored. She began grabbing up all her stuff to leave when she heard voices.

She stopped and waited, holding her breath. It sounded like a man and a woman, what were they saying? She heard a metallic click and a thank you, followed by footsteps and another metallic click. Someone was unlocking the bathrooms. She stood stock still and waited as the footsteps approached her door. There was the metallic click as her door was unlocked.

“They’re all open now,” she heard the man call, his footsteps retreating.

“Thank you,” she heard a woman holler, slightly muffled by the building.

She waited several breaths before walking as quietly as possible to the door, pushing it open. She looked about and saw a green truck marked with what she assumed was a city emblem, possibly a ranger, pull away from the parking lot. She walked out of the building and turned to the left so he wouldn’t be able to see her. She dumped everything in the first trash can she saw and made her way to her car, checking over her shoulder once to be sure the woman in the building wasn’t coming out, hadn’t seen her.

She got back in her car and realized from the overhead cabin light that her shirt was ruined. She quickly took it off and grabbed another shirt from the trashbag full of clothes in the backseat. Throwing the new shirt on, she took a look in the rearview mirror and stifled a surprised “oh” as it escaped her lips. She didn’t look like herself at all. Not at all. Unfortunately there was also a very dark and telltale ring of brown all around the edge of her face from where the dye had gotten into her skin a little bit, nothing she could do about that but wait for it to fade, which she was sure it would in a few days.

She knew she should go somewhere else before playing with the makeup but she was too excited. She grabbed the little kit and read the little guide so she’d know what each thing was and where it went. Unfortunately there wasn’t much info on the how of it all, so she had to guess. She put some of the purple stuff on her eyelids and some of the pink stuff on her cheeks. She looked in the mirror again and giggled. She was definitely not herself, but she didn’t look too terrible. She’d have to get better at the makeup for sure, but her main goal of being someone else had been accomplished.

“You’re Sarah now,” she told her reflection, “Sarah Jones. Easy.”

She started the car and began heading towards the highway again. The sun was now up and there was decidedly more traffic. She joined the line of cars merging east and turned on the radio.

“Sarah Jones,” she said again.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

From the moment she heard she was pregnant she was terrified of the baby’s death. She immediately enrolled in a CPR course. She began researching cribs and bathtubs and everything she could find on infant death, causes, ways to avoid. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from seeing ways her child could die in her home, in a car seat, in a stroller. Reading about children around the world she began to put together a plan for how she would keep this child, her child, alive.

There was no sense to this fear. Her husband told her so, tried to convince her they lived in the most affluent country in the world, there was absolutely no reason why she wouldn’t have the very best care, her child wouldn’t receive the very best care, no reason whatsoever to believe anything bad could possibly happen to their baby. And she agreed, nodding, in his presence. She truly agreed. In his presence.

But when she was alone, when she was reading one of her endless supplies of baby books or putting together the baby registry her family insisted upon, then in those moments, when it was just her and this little being inside her, she became terrified again that it would die in her charge.

By now she’d learned not to say anything to anyone about her fear. Everyone, her husband, her doctor, her mother, they all looked at her askance when she said anything and asked her if she maybe wanted to see a therapist or go to some mommy and me groups now, in preparation. So she simply stopped talking about it. But the thoughts were there. She couldn’t stop them.

When the baby finally arrived, and why do they say that, by the way? It’s not like she just waited around watching Netflix until the doorbell rang, “oh, honey, look! The baby has arrived!” At any rate, when the magical day arrived, and it truly was magnificent, she looked upon her new baby and decided she had truly been a little insane. Nothing terrible was going to happen to this baby. Because she wouldn’t let it.

She determined that like one of the many tribes she’d read about, her baby would not be placed out of arms once in it’s entire first year. She also decided they would co-sleep as it was recommended by groups like La Leche League and was actually shown to decrease incidence of SIDS. She decided she would handle bath time personally as it was the one daily ritual with the highest incidence of associated death. And this was how it continued for the first two years.

And then she learned she was pregnant again.

Her arms were already in use with the first child, how would she keep a second child in arms for an entire year? Their bed was already full with them and the first child, how would they add another? Bath time. How could she possibly keep an eye on two heads at once? She babbled all this to her husband who stopped for a moment, looking deeply into her eyes before asking, “are you serious?”

To which she could only reply, “no,” and laugh, “no, of course not. I’m just so excited and so nervous…a new baby!” she said.

He laughed and smiled, too, but from then on she’d occasionally catch him looking at her, an odd expression on his face. And he became a bit more forceful in his requests to take over bath time every now and again. And she found herself running out of excuses for why he couldn’t.

By the time the second baby arrived, (pause Netflix to answer the door, surprise! Your new baby has arrived!), she’d convinced herself that after seven months the children didn’t really need her to hawkeye them the entire time they were in the tub. She could go pee in the toilet next to the tub, for example, glancing away to wipe, pull up her pants, flush, wash her hands. Of course she kept her eyes on them as much as possible and kept her ears especially open for any sounds indicating trouble, but the longer both kids remained alive and well, the more she began to realize she’d been perhaps a bit over the top in her concern.

Once she could safely pee with them in the tub, she began to think of other things she could safely do. And so a couple nights a week she’d put a basket of clean laundry in the bathroom for her to fold while the kids were bathing. She could keep her eyes mostly on the kids with an occasional glance down to pick up the next item or put the current item down. Once that was working smoothly she decided there was no reason she couldn’t clean the bathroom while the kids were in the tub. And so she started cleaning the sinks. And then one night cleaning the toilet. The mirrors on another night. Before she knew it she was getting some chores done smoothly and efficiently with no adverse affects to the children and feeling quite proud of her newfound sense of mommyhood. She was practically a pro.

As the kids got older and the youngest one got old enough to play games, the two would sit in the tub making up stories with their toys, or blowing bubbles in the bathwater, or taking turns holding their breath under water. This always terrified her, despite how calm she attempted to appear on the outside. She couldn’t help but tell them they must never play that game unless she was watching, to which they always gave her a funny look and said something along the lines of “but you’re always watching,” to which she’d blush a bit and nod.

One night, when they’d been playing at holding their breath for a very long time her nerves got the better of her and she finally had to tell them to stop. “It’s time to get out,” she said, attempting to put a bit of a singsong into her voice. This was met with all sorts of “ah, moms,” and cries of “five more minutes!” She sighed and aquiesced.

Remaining in her station sitting upon the toilet seat cover, she dropped her head in her hands for a moment to massage her scalp. She would figure this out. Maybe she would go see a therapist. That wasn’t such a taboo thing anymore, lots of people went to therapy, it had it’s own badge of honor now. Yes, that’s what she’d do, she thought.

“Look mom! Baby holds breath for a long time!” She heard.

Turning to look she saw the smaller form stationary under the water and shrieked. It wasn’t a scream, it wasn’t throaty and hearty, it was a shriek like seeing a mouse scurry across the floor. She dove towards the tub, her arms reaching in and under and grabbing the little form roughly, wrenching it out of the water. She threw the little body across her knees and began pressing the little chest, two fingers forced down, one two three. She turned the little body upside down and gave a small shake, flipping it back around and breathing gentle puffs into the perfect mouth.

Her husband had come running when she shrieked and seeing what was happening he was asking all the questions, his voice rising as she didn’t answer, too busy trying to give life to the little form a second time.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

“Oh,” she breathed, “you’re a stunner.”

The spider had moved in sometime between brushing teeth last night, about 9pm or so, and brushing teeth this morning, also about 9am or so. So somewhere in the last twelve hours the spider had woven a very small and intricate web, that looked enormous and slightly terrifying in her bathroom sink.

At first she’d thought it was her hair, pieces of her hair that had fallen out and laid haphazardly, or perhaps not so, across the sink. The web glistened under the sixty watts shining down upon it and before she’d realized what it was she’d started to turn on the faucet, a few drops running out before she’d woken enough to realize what she was seeing and abruptly turned the water off. With a few drops of water in it the web was somehow even more alluring, enticing, and she could see how an insect may see it and still land in it distracted by its charm.

She decided she could just as easily use the other sink as this one, let the spider be, see what sorts of critters it caught. They could be roommates as long as the spider paid rent via taking out the creatures that routinely buzzed around her kitchen, dining room, and bedroom every night driving her to distraction. She completed her morning ritual using the other sink, said goodbye and good luck to the spider, and went out.

Her work day proceeded like any other with the exception that on this day she used her breaks to google spiders rather than text her friends and spiral into fantasy on Pinterest. It turned out the spider was nothing more than a common American house spider. Although she wondered why anyone would call it common. The spider could eat flies and mosquitoes, even cockroaches and skinks! Not that she had any cockroaches or skinks around, still pretty amazing for a critter not much bigger than a quarter. The idea of the spider eating all the flies and mosquitoes that buzzed and hummed and drove her nuts every evening was more than enough incentive for her to let it be. She wasn’t much squeamish about bugs in general although she usually did everything she could to collect them and put them outside, this one she’d allow to stay.

When she got home that night she made a beeline to the bathroom to see how her new roommate was settling in. To her surprise there was already a small webby mass in one corner of the web, her roommate had gotten lucky while she was out.

“Cheers,” she smiled, turned off the light, and went back to the kitchen to figure out her own dinner.

Weeks went by with the new ritual a good morning and goodnight to the spider each day, a check in on the progress of the spiders web and captives each evening. She found she was sleeping better at night and waving her arms less frantically each time she ate dinner. She began thanking the spider each day for coming to live with her.

After several months she noticed there were two spiders in the web one evening.

“What’s this?” She asked, “friend or foe?”

She watched for awhile but her spider didn’t seem scared, although how would she possibly know. It looked to be the same kind of spider to her untrained eye although this one was slightly larger with less brown and more of a spotty look. She assumed this meant one was a male and one a female, but again she was no entomologist. She hoped she was right. She briefly considered removing the other spider in case she was wrong, but talked herself out of it: Darwin would never forgive her for interfering.

She went about her business and continued to check on her roommate over the following days. By the third day, she noticed there was now only one spider again. And a few days later there was a rather large mass in a corner of the web. She began to wonder if perhaps she didn’t have cockroaches after all, and her new roommate had taken care of the problem for her, but as the weeks went by she began to see that the new large web wrapped thing had a sort of life to it. And sure enough she began to see little black spots moving about within it.

One evening as she came in to say goodnight, she saw the sac was no longer closed. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of baby spiders all over her bathroom. She stifled a scream and ran out.

“Not cool, roomie,” she said under breath that night as she crawled into bed, without brushing her teeth.

The next morning she very tentatively turned on the bathroom light, keeping her feet and the majority of her body out of the room itself. With the light on she looked all about the room and couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She slowly began walking into the room, keeping an eye especially on the floor, the idea of stepping on a baby spider was more than a little revolting. But the floor was clear. She did, however, see two minuscule new webs in the upper left hand corner of the bathroom, near the top of the mirror, with two itty bitty spiders inside.

“Welcome,” she whispered, “I hope you all find enough to eat in here.”

She swept the rest of the room with her eyes several times before deciding the others had all went in search of greener pastures and then she shimmied up to the spider sink to say good morning and congratulations to her roommate. Sadly, her roommate was belly up in the bottom of the sink, legs akimbo.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, noticing tears in her eyes, “I’m so very sorry.”

She debated what to do next. The easiest thing would be to rinse the spider, her web, and the now empty sac away, and then scrub the sink, as it was terribly dusty after having been ignored for roughly a year. Would that be too harsh on the wee cherubs living above? Would they even notice? Would they absolutely notice and bail, assuming her to be some sort of spider killer? A quick glance at her watch told her she didn’t have time for a ceremony.

She turned on the tap and watched as first a wee bit of brownish water came out followed by a flush of clear. She placed her hand under the spigot and rotated it this way and that, letting the flow get to the outer edges of the sink. She reached under the sink to grab the cleanser and a sponge, turning off the tap as she rose up with both in hand. She cleaned the sink quickly and efficiently, as though it hadn’t housed a friend for a year. When she was finished she returned the cleaning equipment to it’s place below and moved to the other sink to get ready for the day.

She said goodbye to her new roommates on her way out of the bathroom, sweeping her eyes about the place as she went about her routine, ensuring none of the other spiders had taken up camp anywhere else. She wondered briefly where they’d all gone, and how they’d gotten there, before heading out herself.

She stopped for coffee on her way to work, the sink cleaning had taken the time she normally would have used to make her own. She placed her order and went to stand around waiting for it with the other addicts, and it was only then, as she took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful aromas of fresh baked goods and fresh ground coffee, that she began to cry. She was startled, whatever in the world had she to cry about?

A kind woman who’d ordered ahead of her glanced over and saw her tears, made a small motion with her hand as though to touch her arm but stopping just above, “are you okay, honey?” she asked in the sweetest of southern drawls.

“Yes,” sniff, “Oh, yes, it’s just…I lost a friend and I guess I’m still…” sniff, “processing,” she stammered.

“Well, if they meant this much to you, honey, I’m sure they’re in a better place, and if they aren’t, well, the rest of us don’t stand a chance,” she patted her arm and looked up as her name was called. “You take care now.” She went up to collect her coffee and breezed out.

Sniffing and grabbing a couple extra napkins out of the dispenser, she stopped to consider what she’d just been told. “I literally have no idea what just happened,” she heard herself say as she went up to collect her own coffee.

~~~That’s one hour~~~