The Break

Blanket over her shoulders, Stella wraps one hand around a hot mug of coffee, hoarding the warmth but still shaking. In her other hand, she balls a damp Kleenex. She stares down. Her hands look like her mom’s did, older-looking hands for a young woman. Old-lady hands. Her Kookom had hands like this too, and now that she’s an old lady all over, her hands are practically transparent, the skin there worn thin. Stella’s aren’t that bad yet, but they look too wrinkled, too old for her body, like they have aged ahead of her.

She saw the woman, girl, Emily, saw her get up, so slow, and limp a step. For a second, her face was aglow in the light and the snow dancing around her, and Stella wanted to scream.

But she didn’t. She just stood there.

Both her kids were crying now, inconsolable, loud. Their voices pulled at her as sure as hands. The phone, silent, still in her hand. The police will come soon, she had thought. The police will help the woman, the girl. Emily.

She nods but I don’t know if she knows yet, that men are good, strong, amazing and ordinary, but not everything. They can’t be. They are too busy doing other things, and she should be too.