Love You to Death
This is how it starts:
A beep. Just one. Then another. Text message, unread.
Where are you? Miss you. Call me.
And it’s sweet, right? Romantic. You think it’s just some poor girl sitting alone on her couch, bundled up in a hoodie three sizes too big, staring at her phone like it’s a lifeline. You picture her biting her lip, glancing at the clock, waiting for that reply.
Like she’s hanging on your every word. Every pause. Every silence.
But here’s the thing: her name isn’t Sarah or Lizzie or whatever cutesy, wide-eyed, love-drunk name you’d give her. She’s Ruth, as in Ruthless. Ruth like the book in the Bible where everyone dies except the women who survive by following.
"Where you go, I will go; where you stay, I will stay."
Ruth's thumb hovers over send. The Camry idles in neutral. Tuesday marking five days in this Walgreens parking lot, diagonal view to your building. Third floor, corner unit. The only window with aluminum foil taped behind the blinds. She knows because she checked. Fire escape, maintenance hallway, everything.
The texts show delivered. Never read. Your iPhone settings hiding the truth.
In the cupholder: Red Bull number four. Prescription bottle with someone else's name. Daniel Vasquez. Xanax, 0.5mg. Take as needed for anxiety.
She takes two.
Bottom drawer. Under the Uniqlo sweaters she bought because you bought them. Under concert tees from bands you mentioned once in passing. The archive:
Left Gold Toe athletic sock. Retrieved from your gym bag at 24 Hour Fitness. The Post-it: oat milk, frozen pizza, Xanax refill. Your handwriting, practiced until perfect. Green Starbucks straw, your DNA in the teeth marks. Hair from June 15, July 8, August 22. Each Ziploc labeled like evidence.
Tuesday: your Gillette razor, still wet. Wednesday: the wine glass you drank from at Whole Foods. Thursday: library card you reported lost. Friday: nothing. You stayed home. Saturday: credit card receipt from CVS. Trojan Ultra Thin. Astroglide. Plan B.
Ruth arranges these objects on her bedroom floor. A constellation of you. Map of your patterns. Your rhythms. The receipt gets special attention. Smooth between her fingers. She knows about the Hinge girl. Knows her name. Emma. Knows where Emma lives.
Knows Emma won't be a problem much longer.