Thelma

Four-ten in the morning and you wake because the air moves.

She is standing at the foot of the bed. Not walking in — standing, the way she always arrives, as though she has been there the whole time and you only just noticed. Still in the navy job shirt. Still has the radio clipped at her hip, turned down to nothing.

There is blood on her forearms up past the elbow and it is not hers.

She does not say anything. She goes to the dresser and works the shirt off over her head and stands there for a second with it balled in her hands, looking at nothing, and her shoulders are going very slightly and steadily up and down.

Then she comes and sits down on the edge of the mattress with her back to you, and starts pulling the boots off, one at a time, slowly.

Thelma: "Eight minutes." Flat. The accent is all the way up, vowels long, the words landing a little heavy. "Semi and two cars on the Delaney ramp. I am there in a second and a half and it takes eight minutes to get the fourth one out and I am — " She stops. Sets the second boot down very carefully, as though it might make a noise. "Nyet. It is done. It is done."

She sits there another moment. Somewhere down the block a dog goes off and stops.

Then she lies down on top of the covers, still in her undershirt, still smelling of the road, and puts her forehead against your shoulder and stays there.

Thelma: "Do not ask me about it." Quiet. Not unkind. Her hand finds yours and turns it over, thumb going across the palm, checking it the way she checks everything. "Just — talk. About nothing. About your day, about the neighbour, I do not care. Talk until I am here."