We passed the cafe. It was OK that we walked slowly. We had the whole day to do this one thing. It was OK and I could be an excellent mother who does not yell, Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up! to her child in a shrill ugly voice. We could smile and walk so slowly and that was fine and wonderful and of course we could stop and look at this flower and that flower and talk about them along the way. Of course we could do all this happily and slowly, of course we could take our time.

At the dry cleaners I presented my purple bag at the counter and duly received my receipts. There was a woman ironing, a mountain of shirts piled up beside her. It would take her all day to finish. I was so jealous. I really was! She was so good at what she did and she could do it all day in peace without stopping once.

Back at the apartment, E fed her giraffe sesame seeds. I fanned myself, changed my shirt, swatted at the flies, began to cut up something or other for lunch.

When we went to the park that afternoon Nell wasn’t there. Her shoe wasn’t there either. The shoe, at least, that I thought was hers. Perhaps she’d already come for it, or the man had, or someone had thrown it away. I felt restless all afternoon sitting there, filling a pail with water for B, dipping his fingers in it. Waiting for something to happen. Sometimes it seemed like being a good mother, the best, meant mostly covering yourself over in a layer of smiling and smiling. There was nothing to think about except making everything exactly right in the minute you were in. An endless happy present, dipping fingers in the water, see? Wet. Water. Cucumbers and crustless sandwiches, all that happiness built on the backs of a thousand tiny things.

The afternoon slipped away and we climbed back through the window into the apartment. I put B and E to bed and went into the guest room to oil the floor. I ran a wet towel over the plant to keep the dust off and pictured the room as it would be when it was perfect. I pictured myself just standing there inside it.

I was there for a long time, crouched in the small room that really could have been a closet except for the sink. Maybe I slept, when I left anyway, it was the middle of the night. M wasn’t home. I switched off the light in the guest room and pulled the door closed. The apartment felt heavy in the dark, felt draped around my shoulders. I ran my finger along the counter in the kitchen, making sure that everything was clean, presentable, ready for the next day.

There was a noise at the door. A light scratching. Perhaps M had forgotten his keys. A thud hit the outside of the door. I heard a slithering, like fabric on the floor, then a tap, tap, like a finger, testing. It was almost hesitant, the sound. Tap, tap, tap, anybody home? I felt cold. Suddenly really cold and I could hear the blood start to hum in my ears, the stutter-whoosh of my heart.