elevator

I can’t find my face cream. The Sherief in me says I shouldn’t sleep without putting it on. The Sherief in me says go to bed, you’re tired. That’s just it. Now that you’ve moved and you live somewhere else, I don’t know what the Sherief in me says anymore.

Down the hall is the bathroom we share. Shared? No, we still share it. Neutral yellow and green tones are sponged onto the wall above the marble tiling. Mom and Dad chose the marble; we didn’t care.

I look left. The shower head. I’d always know you were home when the shower setting would be different when I turned on the water. I knew you were home when I saw your car in the driveway all those summers ago. But I really knew it when I heard the hiss of your setting. The hiss of what we shared. A room that was yours and mine.

Most people who came to the house wondered why the two boys didn’t share the bathroom and I be the one to get my own, since I’m the girl. Because Tammer’s room is small, and it’s only fair is the reason we’d give anyone who asked. The real reason was counter intuitive and not one hundred percent logical. But we didn’t care.

When you were home, the shower made a soft swish instead of the lazy glurp that I used. I don’t ever want to switch to my setting. I’ll use yours so I feel like you’re here. I’ll be you.

The tough one. The responsible. I’ll have to be older now. There’s no one to tell me.

I was wandering around the house, looking for my face cream, walking up and down the same hallway. The light bulbs shine on the wood, each moving with me as I walk back to my room, the blurry trails of light guiding me.

I turn off the light. No face cream. I made that decision myself.

My tired body sinks into the blankets. To my right is the bottle cap sitting on my night table. Without my permission, my hand grabs it. In the dark, my thumb rigidly goes over it, stiffly, like an elevator acknowledging each floor with a beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. And then I’m there. Here.