A shadow stands at the other end of the hall. It is a man, clearly a man, but silhouetted, without features. He is motionless; watching her.
Moira stares at him, blinking, hoping he'll go away, but he doesn't. A full minute goes by and finally he steps slowly out of view into the living room. The apartment is still. Neither of them have made a sound.
Moira goes into the bathroom. She feels like retching but the urge to pee is greater. She slips off her underwear and sees that for the sixty-first day she is not bleeding.
* * *
Moira walks in from getting her mail and finds the phone ringing.
"Moira?"
"Yes?"
She collapses on the red leather sofa, cradling the cordless in the crook of her neck. She sifts through her mail.
"Moira, it's Gretchen."
"Hi, Gretchen," Moira says. In her hands is a catalog, some coupons. A bill. A letter. She flips the letter over. The return address is her father's estate in Houston.
"I'm sorry to bother you, I hope you weren't busy."
"I'm not."
"I'm having a little get-together on Sunday. A brunch thing."
"That sounds nice." Moira opens the letter. The envelope feels very light.
"Baxter will be there. And Emil and Leslie. Think you and Derek can make it?"
She dumps the contents of the envelope out onto her lap. She finds there a small scrap of paper and a check. The check is made out to her for the sum of ten thousand dollars. The scrap of paper has her father's handwriting on it. "Don't feel so down," her father's written. "Love you, baby."
"Moira?"
"What?"
"Look, I can't lie to you. Derek asked me to call you. He's worried about you. He wants to make sure you're all right."
Moira doesn't say anything.
"Are you all right?"
* * *
Moira sits by the window in her living room. It's late afternoon, and she can hear the hum of rush hour traffic on the street below.
She spent the afternoon cleaning her apartment, thoroughly cleaning it, or at least thoroughly pretending to. Really she was searching the place, scanning every nook and cranny, every possible hiding spot, looking for any sign of him, it, her intruder. It took her all afternoon. She turned up nothing.
At length, she gets up and goes to the bathroom, pulls out a box of Tampax tampons. She begins peeling them out of their wrappers, one by one, discarding the applicators, flushing them down the toilet. This is a guarantee, she thinks. A magic spell. This will ensure bleeding.
* * *
