The Key
"The Key"
by
Luciana Fisher
The buzzer goes off—it’s 6 a.m. Monday. Sarah hits the snooze. Five more minutes is all she needs. But soon the buzzer sounds again. She hits it again, then again, always trying to steal a few more minutes from the day for herself. Time slips away—45 minutes gone, just like that. She stretches hard to wake up her muscles, thinking of her fascia—something a friend recently told her about. She stretches harder, shaking off the daze.
She sits, rubbing her eyes as if trying to scratch away the remnants of sleep. Her yoga mat, near the door, catches her eye. Six months since her last class. Not good. At 37, she’s no spring chicken. What happened last night? It’s a blur. She glances at the clock. Late again. Story of her life.
Getting up, she feels the shooting pain in her leg. Damn fascia. She regrets not buying that foot massager. Mental note she knows she’ll forget. She grabs her phone and tiptoes to the bathroom, trying to dodge the pain. Her head throbs—headache. Advil. She smells her breath. Yikes. The taste of alcohol lingers. What happened last night?
Her morning routine kicks in. More Advil. Toilet, phone in hand. Sixteen messages, but no good morning from Matt. I’ll read them later. Social media. Scroll. Scroll. Double-tap. Mindless likes. Careful not to fall too deep into the social media rabbit hole. Strange. I didn’t post any pictures last night. She always posts something when she goes out. What happened last night? She vaguely remembers seeing Matt. She puts her phone down and steps into the shower.
Hot. Too hot. She carefully nudges the shower knob to the right, just a little. Why can’t the landlord fix this thing? As she washes her hair, she tries to piece together fragments from the night before. Too much time in the shower, as usual. She brushes her teeth and turns off the water. Towel wrapped; she tiptoes back to the bedroom.
Her closet is full, yet she sits on the bed, staring blankly at it. So many clothes. None of them feel right. What am I even doing? She rubs her temples, the sense of wrongness settling deeper. Imagining combinations, she tries new outfits in her mind but settles for sheer black tights, a conservative sleeveless dress, and black pumps. She feels tired. Maybe even sad. Did I cry last night? An ache lingers in her chest, a familiar sense of emptiness. She sighs, pushing it away as she picks up her makeup brush, masking the cracks as best as she can, willing herself back into control.
She puts her hair in a tight bun, and as she looks in the mirror, she thinks, Good job. She feels presentable. Navy blazer, black Chanel handbag. She swaps out last night’s bag and grabs her coffee cup while preparing peanut butter and jelly toast. Everything’s precise—coffee in one hand, toast in the other. As she moves around the apartment, she starts to feel rushed. Where is my key?
The hunt begins. Cabinets? No. Table? No. Bedroom dresser? Nothing. The clock ticks. She’s running out of time, and the adrenaline starts to flow. Where is it?! She checks under the mail, the coffee table, even the fridge. Fuck me. Panic sets in. She can feel it—the desperation rising, the dread sinking in.
Her phone buzzes. Voicemail from work. Damn it! Her heart skips a beat. Damn it! But her mind is elsewhere now—racing through the disarray of her life, not just her apartment. The flood of emotions she’s been holding back for weeks threatens to spill over as her hands tear through the mess.
Tears threaten to spill over as she searches frantically, turning the apartment upside down. Why am I having a meltdown? She feels herself crumbling. Flash memory: OMG. Did that happen last night? Did I say that? It can’t be. The tears come faster now, smearing her carefully applied makeup. She shoves her face into a pillow and screams, careful not to let the neighbors hear. I can’t lose control. Not like this.
She touches up her makeup, hiding the traces of her breakdown, forcing herself to regain composure. Coat on, bag in hand, she leaves the apartment. I’ll call the super later. She walks toward the subway, one step at a time, trying to leave her problems behind. On the way, she checks her phone. Still no call from Matt. She calls work, lying about a doctor’s appointment to cover for her lateness—another one of her go-to excuses. I’ll fix it later.
On the train, she sends replies to work emails, numbing her mind with productivity. By the time she gets to her desk, she’s in work mode. Emotions locked away, focus on high. She checks her phone again. What happened last night? No reply from Matt. By lunch, still no word. The phone rings. Lunchtime. Never fails.
“YES, Mother! I’m fine. I’m just working. I’m just tired. Yes, mother. I will be there. I promise.”
She hangs up and regrets ever agreeing to go to the baby shower. The questions. The small talk. Not today!
She makes it through the rest of the day, surviving on autopilot. Work is a distraction, keeping her from thinking about last night or Matt. What did I do wrong? Where did it go wrong? She checks her phone again on the subway ride home, trying to figure out what she’ll say to Matt. Tired, she dozes off and wakes just in time to get off at her stop.
She walks to her regular food spot near her station, picks up the order she placed before leaving work, and makes her way home. Her usual food, usual pathway. She reaches home and walks up to her apartment. Four flights up. I need to book that yoga class! When she gets to the top of the stairs, she remembers she didn’t call the super. Damn it! She quickly sends the super a text message while instantly realizing she will be eating dinner on the hallway floor.
Approaching her apartment, she notices her key hanging outside the door. No! Oh my God, yes! Finally! She feels what one can only describe as a combination of joy and relief. She is about to turn the key when she hears a notification sound coming from her phone. It’s the super. She lets go of the key, puts her food down, and quickly texts him back, saying she found her key and that it had solved her problem, and no longer needed his help. She thanked him for his quick reply.
Sarah puts the phone in her bag, picks up the food with one hand, and turns the key.
As she steps inside, the mess she left behind greets her like an old, familiar ache. It’s all still there—the clutter, the chaos, the reminders of everything she’s been trying to ignore. And still, no message from Matt. For a moment, she stands frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. The key might have gotten her through the door, but it could never fix this mess.
The silence in the apartment presses in on her. She drops the bag of food onto the counter and sighs, feeling the tension return to her shoulders. Would he even call? He had to. She stares at her phone, willing it to light up, hoping it would bring something—anything from him. She couldn’t bear to think of losing anything else.
What’s next? Where do I even begin? She stares at the mess, her problems stretching out in front of her like a labyrinth with no clear way out.
Slowly, she closes the door behind her, dragging her feet as she steps further into the apartment. Here we go again. The weight of her life feels heavier than the key she holds in her hand. She’d found the key to get inside, but the real key—the one that would unlock peace—remains out of reach.
She looks at the bottle on the table. She grabs it, considers it for a moment, walks up to the sink, and pours it all out. Not today! Not today! This is rock bottom.
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