The Itch
By Raya El-Hajjar
The clouds sagged over the London sky, with not even enough rain to be worth my umbrella’s while. I walked aimlessly, trying not to check my watch again. Despite the lack of rain in the sky, water was seeping through my yellow rainboots into my socks. I’d bought them impulsively from a street stand my first evening in London, only to find cheaper and better-looking copies just paces away. Sticking to my throat was the morning coffee I now regretted. A scone might have been more prudent, to wave off the cramps of hunger that seized my stomach. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be consumed with dread for my impending plans. Was it the caffeine’s doing, twisting my mood?
I didn’t bother to dwell on the answer. My mother had recently fallen down an internet rabbit hole, convinced that coffee was to blame for my troubles, big and small. She reminded me every time we spoke, along with the continual pronouncement that if I just sucked it up and stopped being so afraid all the time, I would have a successful career. Like one more reminder would finally send me over the edge into a daughter she was proud of. If I had my old job back, would that make you happy? I wanted to ask. If I just pushed myself into this little box, crammed all my limbs to fit, would I finally be worthy? I just nod through our phone calls, even though she can’t see me, and hum in agreement when prompted until the line goes dead.
When Vera texted that she would be in town, I almost dropped my phone on my face. I was lying in bed, phone suspended to reach the signal, which was better up high. City money stretched thinner than I realized, especially since I had been skimming more than reading the lease I signed.
I responded with “Let’s plan something” and a smiley face, hopefully to disguise the bone-chilling fear.
It was surely our coffee chat that made me shiver under my new brown trench coat, one of those fancy ones with the bottom sewn that you have to cut. Or it could've been the water in my shoes.
What was I going to say when I saw her, when she inevitably asked how I was doing, awaiting stories of a life filled with events? How could I break the news that there was nothing worth reporting?
I was floundering there, still floundering here. London sounded so exotic until you lived it. Like my apartment, vintage in an exhilarating way. I had flopped onto my mattress happily on the first night, the adrenaline of my departure still speeding up my heart. Only hours later, I woke up to a smell I could not place. My landlord, a slender man who always wore a different colored tie, told me that the smell was because the building next door had once been a tannery. Unclear what that was, I googled, only to find some particularly graphic YouTube videos. Ever since, I was paranoid that the smell of melting animal clung to me wherever I went, the stench of misfortune preceding me.
Not like anyone needed another sensory marker to intuit my general malaise. I started avoiding my own reflection after I accidentally made eye contact with myself in the mirrored window right outside my apartment. Startled, I had stopped right there in the middle of the street, troubled that I could not recognize the expression staring back at me. I’d run harried straight to my bathroom mirror, sure that my face was just distorted in the glass.
What I saw framed above the sink was me. I repeated it out loud to convince myself. Of course, it was me. My skin was almost the color of the porcelain sink, with red splotches of acne that had me dropping my bag right onto the floor, my hands immediately reaching to pick at every bump. I don’t know how long I scratched and prodded, arms aching, skin stinging, my own blood under my nails. It wasn’t the skin that spooked me; it was my eyes, clouded over in a way I had never seen before. Like a ghost. After that day, I kept my gaze pointedly fixed on the apartment across the street whenever I walked by. I wouldn’t be startled again.
The rain was starting to pick up now, and I fumbled around with my umbrella, but the spokes were stuck on the latch. I pushed the button again as fat drops of water fell onto the blowout that had taken me multiple hours. The umbrella wouldn't give. I pushed harder until something snapped, and the handle fell loose in my hand. Rain splattered onto the street, collecting into puddles that sloshed around in my boots.
Annoyance threaded into my mind against my will as I picked up my pace. The cafe was close, just another two agonizing blocks, I confirmed on my phone. It was near enough to my apartment that I should have visited it before. Vera probably expected me to be a regular, to have rapport with the barista, and an old lady friend with whom I exchanged adorable banter. She probably imagined my mornings where I drank a coffee that didn’t sit like a stone in my stomach, before buying a fresh bouquet of roses from the adjacent stand—no, even better, I had a brooding and very tall admirer, who sent flowers to my apartment every Tuesday morning with notes expressing his adoration, even though we’d only met two weeks ago.
No, that was all Vera. The wedding of the century, according to my mother. She was at the perfect age to get married, I was told, too young was gauche, too old, and no self-respecting man would wait for you at the altar. Lucky for Vera, she’d found quite the man, and just in time. Such a handsome man, and a successful lawyer! I stared at their engagement photos on Instagram, her face of surprise, their teary eyes, so effortlessly posed for the photographer.
I’d asked why she was coming to London, sure she was busy with wedding preparations, but she’d replied, “LOL, that’s what the wedding planner is for!” This trip was her last before she turned in her notice, trading the international finance consulting for a rock on her finger and a stroller of kids to come.
I tried to remember the last time we’d spoken, really spoken, not the surface tones of adults, but with the intimacy of youth. I could barely make out the street sign ahead of me; the letters faded with time, feeling the familiar dread fill my lungs as the cafe came into sight.
It was the itch. I’d felt it back then, sitting at my fake wood-paneled desk at the job I was supposed to be good at. And I was. I was good, I could’ve been great, but there was an itch. And it told me to run. To leave my job, my house, my city. All the suffocating attention was a scratchy wool sweater, and I had to take it off. You see why I had to leave. I thought London was far enough to scratch the itch, miles from everything I knew, but standing in front of the sink at my bathroom mirror, I knew I was wrong. The itch wasn’t just leaving home. I had to leave my body.
I just couldn’t figure out how.
The door to the coffee shop loomed closer, and I felt my happiest mask tighten onto my drenched skin. Standing on the door mat, the influx of warm air didn’t stop me from shivering.
Vera sat legs crossed at a table for two, already clutching a coffee in both hands. She was splendid, what else can I say? Hair neatly combed into a bob, a cream blouse, and matching linen pants that were somehow unmarked from the rain. An umbrella perched by the table with blue and brown polka dots that would have looked eccentric in anyone else’s possession.
She didn’t recognize me at first, looking then looking away, before she determined that the rain-soaked girl at the door was her hometown friend. Why had I agreed to this coffee date? I had anticipated the shame, the anger, and yet I’d still agreed. She stood to greet me, and I reluctantly forced my legs over to her. My boots made a squelching sound against the ground.
Vera smiled, arms wide like she wanted to hug me, but stopped when she saw the sheer amount of water I had absorbed.
“Our runaway,” she said. “Look at you!”
I smiled back, as far as I could force it, eschewing the hug for a fumbled handshake. My hands were just as wet as the rest of me, and Vera tried to suppress a grimace. I tried to feel like a whole, not a shell, a person, but the emptiness inside me wanted to crawl out.
“You look so different!” she said. Could she tell how much I wished I could melt to the ground, seep into the floorboards, and assume a better form?
“Good different?” I tried to laugh, but it struck deep in my chest.
“I mean, just so different.” She smiled brighter, but it stretched thin across her face. “Come sit,” she said, “you’re soaked to the bone!”
THE END
Author Bio: Raya is a writer and student based in Milwaukee. She writes and mentors for IndyKids magazine, where she has published articles. Her short fiction has earned national recognition, including a Silver Medal in the Scholastic Writing Awards. Beyond literature, Raya advocates for social justice through her involvement in local organizations.