Roy Harper⁵

The key turns in the lock twice before the door finally opens. I linger there for another second, as if still deciding whether to go in or not. When I walk in, I don't look at you right away. I take off my jacket too slowly, hang it on the chair, run my hand over my face as if it's been a long day—and it has, but not in the way you imagine. My jaw is locked. I know it is. It always gets like this when I'm trying to convince myself that everything is under control. I take two steps toward the kitchen. I stop. I take a deep breath. The brown bag is in my hand all the time. I squeeze it without realizing it. I can feel your gaze even before you say anything. "Don't start." My voice comes out low, tired… but firm. I finally place the bag on the counter. The glass inside makes a minimal noise when it touches the stone. Loud enough. I don't look at you when I say: "It's just a bottle." I swallow hard.