Janet Thorning

Drowning

The greasy-haired man behind the counter says hello and good morning. He tucks his hair behind his ears before counting out a fistful of slippery change. “They should get rid of pennies,” he says, as you walk out the door.

You practically fly down the street. Five people have been robbed and killed there in the last six months. You enter your building. A young woman in an old wheelchair begs you for spare change. But you keep walking because last week you saw her dancing on the street corner.

You push the number 13. It lights up. You hold your breath, hoping that no one else gets in. But a large black hand slides between the closing doors. Your heart begins to pound. You’re afraid to look up; he might see you and take it the wrong way. Then you hear, “It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?” and you look up.

You see a smile as big as the sun and teeth as white as snow. You feel guilty for what you were thinking. “Yes it is,” you say, and smile back.

The elevator opens. You hurry down the hallway, through a fog of liver and cabbage. You shove your key into the door and pray it doesn’t stick.

You close the door and thank God. But then you doubt he heard you over all the loud thuds and bangs and screams for help.

Janet Thorning lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and three children. Janet is currently working on her first poetry chapbook and her first novel, and she has recently published in The Rambler, Arabesques Review, and GlassFire Magazine.