I handed in a notice of immediate resignation and ignored every phone call from work. Forgetters don’t resign, we retire. None of my co-workers have my details, so they wouldn’t be able to reach me.
I try to pack a bag. I put books in, then take them out. I pick up and put down pans. I manage to fit some clothes in the bottom, but my wide summer hat doesn’t fold down. I stare helplessly at the potted orchid on my windowsill, vibrant petals radiating health. Would I be able to give it a good life? Would it die before I reached safety?
Eventually I shove travel nausea pills and assorted medicine from my cabinet into the bag, along with a small wool blanket. I have visions of sleeping in the back of shipping containers and lorries. I try to think about how to make that better. I stuff in a half empty packet of wet wipes, a box of tampons and a tin of decorative plasters.
I go out to the closest pharmacy to stock up. I don’t have a lot of space, so I spend too long choosing between heartburn or diarrhoea relief. I decide heartburn would be more bearable. If the pharmacist notices something is off, she doesn’t say anything. I add a packet of mints to my purchase, just in case.
It’s only a walk down the street to my home. Five minutes at the most. The nearby shops means people are often walking around. Maybe that’s why I don’t immediately notice when I stop and take my keys out. I glance around as I turn the lock. Every hair on my neck stands on end.
He’s there. Leaning on the wall on the corner of the building. Cigarette in his mouth.
He glances at me.
We lock eyes.
I tear my face away and push the door open. With feet like lead, I pull myself inside and shut the door behind me. I manage to get to the lift before my shaking legs give out, and I collapse as it rises. Boxes of medicine fall from the plastic bag as I drop it, scattering. I grip my shirt, breath coming in wheezes.
I do not know if he recognised me.
a place of words 
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