Ava said she hadn’t heard anything. It was supposed that, since I’d returned the things Metti had claimed I’d stolen, Metti was appeased and would not cause more trouble.

I asked her if Metti was continuing as a customer and she said sure, she thought so. Metti hadn’t actually had any complaints about my housecleaning. He’d paid his bills more or less on time. Over the years, other women the Agency had sent to him, most of them had worked out OK. He’d never accused anyone of stealing from him before me.

“You need to be more cautious, Violet. Next time you’ll know better.” Ava laughed.

Told Ava that I was leaving Catamount Falls and she expressed surprise though maybe not so much surprise, considering. Asked me where I was going and I told her I didn’t know yet—“I’m just running for my life.”

Tongue

. . . THRUST INTO YOUR MOUTH TO IMPALE YOU, SUBDUE YOU. THE man’s tongue thick like a snake not warm but weirdly cool, clammy. Predator-male tongue prepared to thrust and penetrate until you choke to death.

Bitch. Slut. Lying cunt.

This isn’t over yet.

“OH, BRINDLE. STOP.”

Soft flopping tongue on my face. Soul of the dog is the tongue.

Laughing, pushing the little bulldog away. A dog’s mouth is not exactly clean.

Waking in this new place. Relieved to be alive.

Premature heat of May, white-tinged sun falling directly on my face since I have not (yet) put up blinds, curtains. Outside the window is a balcony, a railing that casts bars of shadow against the windowpanes, onto the bed, on my face as I lie in bed awakened by the funny little dog wanting only to kiss me.

Three hundred forty miles from Catamount Falls and from the high-rise apartment overlooking the steely St. Lawrence River. Though I have yet to precisely calculate the miles, it is probably about the same distance to South Niagara. East and south of the city of my birth, south of the Mohawk River in a hilly and mostly rural region of New York State in which I have never lived and where I know no one.

Here, Orlando Metti will never find me. I am certain.

If I’d remained in Catamount Falls the man might have persevered. Out of bitterness, spite. I’d have had to move from Cayuga Street to another rental. But Metti could not hate me so very much, he’d hardly known me. Soon, another girl/woman would attract his eye. The pale blond cleaning-woman speaking accented English, maybe.

In another few months Metti will have forgotten my name. And he has to be grateful to be rid of the damned little dog.

It is a new life in Mohawk, New York. A new interim life.

Not my true life but a provisional life. Improvised, calculated.